Scroll- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  I didn’t know if I was ready for this.

  And I had a strange feeling that Finn wasn’t just talking about me but himself. I wasn’t afraid of the wild look in his eyes, but it made my stomach flutter in an uncomfortable way, sent my pulse hammering through my veins.

  I moved, but he was quicker, placing himself directly in my path.

  ‘Let me pass, Finn,’ I demanded futilely. But even to my own ears, my voice lacked conviction.

  The top of my head scarcely reached his shoulder and I felt dwarfed, yet oddly protected, by his height and solid muscle. He slowly bent down, his lips brushing against my ear, making me shiver in reaction as his breath fanned the tendrils of loose hair curling around my left earlobe.

  ‘Fear and passion are but two sides of the same coin.’ The scent of fruit was stronger now. ‘You’ve felt fear, Saffron, but have you ever really felt passion?’

  Musical notes dropped from his lips like pearls, seducing me.

  ‘We all are afraid of losing ourselves, of losing control and being possessed, and consumed. And yet, like moths drawn to the flame, we crave it.’ Finn’s eyes seemed to see into my very soul. ‘Against our better judgement, we’re tempted ... and it would be so easy to give into that temptation...’

  ‘Finn, please. Let me pass,’ I said again, my voice even weaker. I tried to clear my throat, but instead my mouth felt dry like sandpaper.

  ‘You give me an order, Saffron, yet I do not feel the force of it. Perhaps you do not mean it...’ he whispered seductively into my ear. ‘Yet you could make any demand of me, if you only knew your power...’

  A strange lassitude came over me as he continued to speak, my body sinking back upon the cold stone.

  ‘You are confused. I can see it written on your face.’ I could feel the heat emanating from his body, turning my bones to water. Inhaling his scent, I felt myself drowning, as he continued, ‘You’ve been a loner for too long. You do not know what to believe. Or whom to trust.’

  ‘You told me that I shouldn’t trust you. Should I trust you? Is that what you want?’ I whispered, as I looked up at his exquisite features, feeling myself yielding.

  His exquisite face changed then as I uttered the last words, and he seemed to be at war within himself as he twisted away from me, his hands balling into fists at his side. I could not read his expression fully as he held himself slightly apart from where I remained standing, but it was as if a concrete wall had suddenly been erected between us. The midnight blue darkness of his eyes contained such a wealth of despair and desolation to take my breath away. But his face, even in profile, remained both beautiful and fierce.

  ‘I’ve told you that I will protect you. Even from yourself. Even from me.’ He growled the statement at me as he turned on his heel and, with a litheness and speed that was inhuman, fled the gallery.

  And he was gone.

  Finn’s departure was so unexpected, his movements a mere blur – an invisible quickening like a ripple beneath the surface of a calm lake that one might barely notice its motion – that I had trouble comprehending it. In the time it took for me to refocus on my surroundings, I found myself standing alone in the empty gallery of the Louvre’s Near Eastern Antiquities.

  Slumping back upon the winged bull monumental sculpture, heedless of the cold emanating from its stone, I tried to calm the erratic fluttering of my pulse.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Bloody hell! It had happened again! He’d done it to me again! Why was it that every time Finn and I met we ended up the same way – with Finn storming off or fleeing from me like the hounds of hell were chasing him and me left wondering what the hell I’d done wrong?

  It was starting to become a habit. Next time, I resolved, I would be the one who left Finn standing alone looking like a fool. Let him experience what it felt like to be abandoned.

  Detaching myself from where I was propped up against the base of the ancient monument, I crossed the length of the deserted gallery towards the exit, glancing over my shoulder one last time to view the immense sculptures of the Shedu.

  ‘Some protectors you turned out to be!’ I muttered bitterly under my breath. But the impassive stone carving failed to provide any sort of response, except for its mouth, which I had initially thought to be curved upward in a kindly smile, now seemed to grin at me mockingly.

  A BOX AT THE OPERA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Quitting Near Eastern Antiquities, I took the shortest route from the Richelieu Wing to the main entrance of the Louvre. Time had lost all meaning somewhere between the mystic spaces of the Round Zodiac as the day’s last visitors were trickling out of the museum into evening.

  I had lingered longer than I’d intended.

  Pushing through the museum’s revolving door, assaulted by the wild weather, the first thing that I spotted across the plaza was the cultural tour group from Pennsylvania University boarding their coach, presumably taking them back to their hotel. Of Finn, there was no sign.

  I turned in the opposite direction searching the ranks of taxis and hired cars for Gabriel’s chauffeur, whilst the sleet continued to fall on the desolate courtyard from an iron-grey sky quickly turning black; silvery streaks in the lamplight. Even the mellow honey coloured stone of the Palais du Louvre was dark now; slick with wet so that it looked like it had been polished to the smoothness of granite.

  I heard my name being hailed loudly, though the sound seemed to come from afar. Looking through the flurry of snow and shadows, I made out a dark sedan double-parked in the distance, its driver waving at me to hurry. The biting winter winds swept through me again and I shivered uncontrollably, pulling my overcoat tightly around my slim frame as I started in the direction of the BMW. As I crossed the courtyard from where I had emerged from the Carrousel du Louvre, my leather boots sunk into shallow puddles of heavily trampled slush and I wondered briefly whether I’d have the opportunity to wear them again or if the ice and rainwater would ruin them. But I had little time to lament. It seemed as if the world was slowly emptying in the gathering dark.

  Ensconced within the warmth of the car’s interior, I had time to reflect upon what had just passed. I realised that since moving away from the Round Zodiac I no longer heard the din of competing voices nor the mysterious incantations from a distant past which led me to speculate that it was only when I came into contact with these “gates” as Finn had called them that I would hear with my inner ear. Perhaps I also needed to concentrate hard upon the symbols. I wasn’t quite sure how it worked but it seemed to generate an awful amount of power in order for one to move between realms.

  ‘We have arrived at your destination.’ The chauffeur’s accented English broke through my reverie.

  Looking out the window I was shocked to discover that we hadn’t gone that far at all. The BMW was parked outside the Paris Opera House. I thought I had misunderstood the driver – that we were merely picking Gabriel up and would be on our way again – but it seemed that I was expected to alight from the vehicle as Gabriel’s driver held open the car door for me.

  ‘Ah, chérie, but you have not changed your attire.’ Gabriel pronounced, his disembodied voice carried to me from where he stood, somewhere to my right, in the shadows behind his chauffeur.

  I had been in the process of stepping out the car, watching where I planted my feet on the icy pavement but, looking up at his words, I was able to view him as he emerged into the lamplight, my eyes widening in surprise as I took in the sight before me. Gabriel was impeccably groomed as if he were starring in the next James Bond film.

  Reaching out to assist me, the gold of his cufflink against the bright whiteness of his Mandarin-collar dress shirt winked as it caught the light and I found my gaze travelling up the length of Gabriel’s hard, lean frame, attired in a glamorous tailored tuxedo which he wore under his black overcoat. His fair hair was blowing in the wind giving him a dashing piratical windswept look and though he sported a white silk scarf, which on any other man migh
t have seemed effeminate, he was every inch male – something that the Parisiennes passing by couldn’t fail to notice.

  I should have been swooning. Instead, I scowled.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking! I’m not dressed to go out! Why didn’t you warn me?’ I protested, looking from Gabriel’s tuxedo to my own fashionable but casual attire.

  Gabriel’s eyes narrowed warningly. ‘If you would care to check your phone, I left several voice messages and texts doing just that.’

  I refused to pull my mobile phone out of my pocket to take a look, fearing that he would be right. No doubt, while I had been in the Louvre, Gabriel had called. I probably just hadn’t heard my phone over the noise of the crowded galleries or, worse still, when I was passed out. But now I looked foolish and underdressed besides this debonair Nephilim.

  ‘Look,’ I attempted reasoning with him, ‘I can’t go anywhere looking like this! And I’m not going to the opera! It’s boring! Do we have to go out? Why can’t we go to see the can can like at the Moulin Rouge or something?’

  ‘Not opera. Ballet,’ he corrected automatically. ‘And you are too young to see half-naked ladies on stage.’

  I didn’t see why the hell not – I’d seen half-naked ladies sunbathing on the beach back in Australia!

  ‘You seem to forget that I’m not some pubescent boy who’d be panting after the girls on stage,’ I accused, ‘I’m a woman, for heaven’s sake! And you’re just being sexist! Just because I’m female, I’m not automatically interested in ballet, and I’m not going to any ballet!’

  The rumbling of the limousine as it joined the traffic drowned out most of Gabriel’s reply – though I had a reasonable idea it consisted of a string of profanities in his native tongue.

  ‘Look,’ I tried to explain in a calmer tone, ‘I’m just not a girlie girl. I don’t do ballet.’

  Gabriel looked at me askance as he ushered me towards the front steps of the Opera House. ‘Mais si! But, of course, you are not expected to “do” ballet. We have come to watch a performance, not perform on stage ourselves!’

  I shook my head in frustration, trying to overcome the language barrier as there were some aspects of youth culture that Gabriel obviously had no knowledge about.

  ‘No, I meant that I’m not into ballet. I prefer more adventurous hobbies and sports,’ I searched for the right words to convey my interests. ‘More daring, more of a thrill. Like skiing, surfing, bungy jumping–’

  ‘Oui, oui, oui! On vous le rend bien. Motor racing. Ice Hockey. Football.’ Gabriel offered, nodding his head enthusiastically.

  Was he nuts? I mention bungy jumping and he goes on about ice hockey and soccer! Great! Where was the thrill in that?

  ‘Yeah, football’s all right, I suppose, if you’re Keira Knightley,’ I agreed, less enthusiastically. ‘Anyway, you get my point, right? So, you see, ballet isn’t my thing.’

  ‘Ecoutez un peu. Je vais vous dire. I’ll tell you what. You will love the ballet,’ Gabriel pronounced formally, as if he knew me better than I knew myself and I had no choice in the matter.

  ‘But–’ I began.

  He overrode my protests, ignoring me. ‘Besides, you are wrong.’

  Ugh! No one was listening to me! Why did everyone keep telling me I was wrong?

  ‘I have seen you wear pretty dresses and cosmetics and jewellery,’ Gabriel continued, ‘as if you were born to be a princesse. You are exactly what I would have termed a – what did you call it? – a “girlie girl”, Saffron.’

  I gave up. It was pointless continuing an argument I knew I was going to lose. There was no reasoning with him.

  And besides, we had entered the foyer of the Opéra Garnier and I immediately forgot about the conversation as I took in my surroundings.

  Though the outside of the building was vast with its ostentatious façade in what the architect, Garnier, termed the “Napoleon III style”, the Paris Opera House’s auditorium only seated a little more than two thousand patrons. As a child, I had often passed by the Palais Garnier’s exterior which was opulently decorated with elaborate multi-coloured marble friezes and columns, and lavish statuary – many of which portrayed Greek mythological deities and creatures such as the Titan, Apollo, and the winged Pegasus – though I had never been inside before.

  But the inside was not to be outshone.

  The Grand Foyer and auditorium were elaborately decorated with numerous intricate, gilded objects of art, and a painted ceiling created by Marc Chagall which surrounded the chandelier made famous by the musical, The Phantom of the Opera. My eyes swept over the massive marble circular Grand Staircase which we were making our way towards and the rich decorations of hanging ruby-red velvet curtains, gold leaf, and gilded statues of cherubim and nymphs; characteristic of the building’s Baroque sumptuousness.

  My mouth had fallen open. It was over-the-top in its splendour. The decadent, luxurious surroundings should have been gaudy but, instead, I found them delightful though slightly intimidating. Walking beside Gabriel, I now felt like a gauche schoolgirl. No wonder he had commented on my attire – I was a fish out of water in my casual outfit amongst the lavish decorations, and the evening gowns and tuxedos worn by patrons.

  ‘It is magnificent, n’est-ce pas?’ Gabriel commented, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement at my lack of sophistication.

  I merely gave a nod; too busy feasting my senses on the excessive, opulent architecture to reply.

  ‘Attendez voir! Just wait,’ he said, guiding me through the crowd, ‘we are about to enter the main hall. Now that is really something.’

  Up the marble staircase adorned in red carpet the galleries gave way to private boxes for viewing the performance. At one time the Palais Garnier had housed the opera, now it was the home of the Paris Opéra Ballet.

  I followed Gabriel upwards and onwards, through the twisting maze of corridors, until we came upon a cordoned-off gallery. The red velvet rope and deserted hall beyond fairly screamed “No Admittance!”, but Gabriel ignored the warnings and merely unclipped the rope from where it was attached to the brass ring on the wall to offer me entrance.

  ‘Are you certain we should be doing this?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘Oui, oui, oui. Bien sûr. Pas de danger!’

  He did not appear to be concerned at the thought of getting caught, so I merely shrugged my shoulders and skirted around him, waiting for him to reattach the rope to follow him down the corridor. Despite being empty of patrons, the gallery was well-lit and someone had ensured that it was kept spotless. No dusty, draughty hallways here.

  We finally stopped at the end of the gallery at a dull wooden door which had a small circular window in etched glass at its centre like that of a portal of a steamship. Above the little window, it read in gold lettering “6 Places Louée” and a number was prominently displayed in the middle between the words.

  ‘Box Five?’ I queried, my voice rising excitedly. ‘Box Five! You’re kidding me!’

  Gabriel merely gave an enigmatic smile in response, producing from his pocket a small brass key hanging from a red tassel to insert in the lock.

  Oh my God! This was like the coolest thing ever! Totally sick!

  The door swung open to reveal a short corridor with a coat rack mounted on the right wall and, beyond the red velvet curtain that partitioned the entry from the box itself, a balcony that jutted out next to the stage, gaining optimum views if one wanted to be part of the action on stage.

  ‘Box Five!’ I breathed in awe as I stepped out on the balcony to gain my seat whilst allowing Gabriel to hang up my coat. ‘I can’t believe it! I thought it was simply a myth or a tourist attraction! You own Box Five?’

  ‘I lease Box Five,’ Gabriel corrected, his silver-grey eyes sparkling wickedly in the dim light of the theatre.

  ‘You can’t be!’ I shook my head in disbelief. ‘No way! The Phantom? I mean, like the Phantom of the Opera! I can’t believe it!’

  But it was all too easy to imagine Gab
riel as the solitary Phantom of the Opera – one moment, charming and debonair; menacing and dangerous, the next. The man now sitting so languidly beside me on one of the plush red velvet theatre seats was a mischief maker; part angel, part devil and all too human for my peace of mind.

  ‘Regarde!’ Gabriel instructed, directing my eyes away from him and, instead, to the magnificent centrepiece suspended above the auditorium.

  The six-ton chandelier hung proudly above the patrons, its crystal prisms reflecting and refracting the light like multi-coloured stars. Rainbows of captured light danced around the auditorium prettily.

  ‘It is superb, non?’

  I nodded in agreement.

  ‘It is beautiful but deadly. In 1896, one of the counterweights of the chandelier fell from the ceiling killing an opera patron,’ Gabriel commented, lending credence to the Phantom myth for my benefit. ‘Things of beauty are often more dangerous than they seem.’

  I shivered, my eyes widening. It was as if Gabriel was sending me a warning – though his angelic beauty was warning enough.

  ‘Merde! Do not look at me like that, mon petit chou! It was not my doing!’ he said, referring to the incident of the chandelier.

  Smiling somewhat nervously, I tried to keep my thoughts away from the seductiveness of the Nephilim. Gabriel was right – they were beautiful but deadly. Yet, as I recollected Finn’s words of that afternoon, it was difficult not to be drawn to them, like moths to a flame.

  Making an effort to distract myself from the direction my thoughts were headed in, I resumed my examination of the auditorium and the array of designer evening gowns in the stalls below. I could identify the fashionable frocks by their modistes, many of these gowns worn by famous celebrities at the Academy Awards – Roberto Cavalli, Prada, Armani, Vera Wang, amongst others – now adorning the lily-like frames of the female theatre patrons. But, amongst these, were the tourists who were as under-dressed as me; making me feel slightly better about my appearance.

  But then I felt a creeping cold assail me and drew back in horror. As my gaze swept the audience, I thought I spotted the distinctive, pale blond head of Louis Gravois and could have sworn that he looked up at me briefly from where he was seated in one of the forward rows of the stalls, his almost colourless blue eyes meeting mine.