“Are there any more Outcasts or Enhanced that can be sent to join the fight?” asked de Richelieu.
“Jesse and I talked about that this morning,” said Ravid, “and his view was that none can be spared. We’re already stretched thin attempting to guard Maurice of Orange and the Ottoman Sultan Ahmad—and Captain Smith is pushing hard for us to send a team over to Jamestown, before the colony ends up lost just like Roanoke.”
“Then the Quarante Cinq will come with you to Naples,” proclaimed de Richelieu. “The king’s guardsmen are devastated that they were unable to prevent his murder. They will demand to be part of this mission of retribution.”
As far as the bishop was concerned, the matter was settled. Ravid still had some concerns. “Won’t sending an army into Naples provoke a war with Spain?”
“You forget,” said de Richelieu, “that our grieving queen is Marie de’ Medici, daughter of Florence’s ruling dynasty. Her family will support our efforts to capture her husband’s killer—they can speak to their Napoletano counterparts and ensure their cooperation.
“However,” said the bishop, pondering the issue further, “we will still need some plan to sneak the guardsmen into Naples. They can’t exactly go marching into the city. That would demand an official response from the authorities.”
“Not to mention tipping off the Academy,” agreed Ravid.
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE
Palais du Louvre, Paris, France, afternoon, Tuesday May 25 1610
De Richelieu and Ravid spent the next hour or so tossing around ever more fanciful ideas to solve the problem, without success. The answer, when it emerged, came from an unlikely source.
Father Joseph, as was his custom, had been in and out of the bishop’s office all afternoon, bringing papers to be signed and decisions to be made. The friar’s latest delivery provided the solution, though that fact was not immediately evident.
“What’s this?” asked de Richelieu as Father Joseph handed over a bill of accounts.
“It is a chargefor the hire of the Seintespirit, Your Grace. It is part of your patronage arrangement with the Paris Opera Company.”
The bishop looked momentarily puzzled, so Father Joseph explained. “The Seintespirit is a merchant ship that is usually hired out to the French navy to patrol the Mediterranean. We have arranged for it to ferry the cast and crew of the opera Euridice to Naples next month, from where they will begin their tour of the Italian states.”
And then, suddenly, the answer was obvious. De Richelieu, alive with inspiration, had to wait until the friar had left the room before he could explain to Ravid. “The guardsmen can be smuggled into Naples aboard this ship, as part of the touring opera company. They can pretend to be performers and stagehands. You should accompany them so that you can brief them during the journey.”
The bishop reviewed the travel details from the papers that Father Joseph had provided. “The ship is scheduled to sail from Marseille in a week. That means we will need to organize a series of fast carriages, and several teams of horses, to get you and the guardsmen to Marseille before the Seintespirit departs.”
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR
Catacombs of San Gennaro, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 8.24 a.m. Wednesday June 23 1610
Ezequeel raised his sword, preparing to strike. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
Instinctively, Chrymos raised Adric’s schiavona with her right hand while her left held the shield of Evalach protectively in front of her.
Ezequeel’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the white shield with its blood-red cross. “I see you’ve picked up Machkiel’s shield from the tomb. It didn’t do him much good so I shouldn’t expect too much, if I were you.”
He slammed his barbed sword against the shield, sounding impressed when the shield absorbed most of the impact. “Not bad, Eleven. Of course, the shield’s usefulness does rather depend on the skill of the person holding it.” With that, Ezequeel pulled back his arm and smashed his sword against the shield once again.
The sheer force of the second strike sent Chrymos sprawling backwards across the chamber, like Adric before her. She collided with one of the sarcophagi and slumped to the floor. She still clutched the shield, but the schiavona had been knocked out of her hand.
Ezequeel strode over to where she lay and lifted up his sword, planning to deliver a killing blow.
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE
Catacombs of San Gennaro, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 8.25 a.m. Wednesday June 23 1610
Ezequeel towered over his fallen opponent, gloating for a moment. “Not great, Eleven. You should have put your time back on Earth to better use.”
“Actually,” said Chrymos, pushing her back hard up against the side of the sarcophagus, “it was my father, a very, very long time ago, who taught me how to do this.”
With that, she summoned her wings. As they shimmered into existence, they reacted to the presence of the sarcophagus wall behind Chrymos. Unable to co-exist with the solid stone, the wings squeezed themselves into the almost non-existent space between Chrymos and the wall, and then expanded like an uncoiling spring. Chrymos was catapulted forward so that she shot towards Ezequeel like a cork out of a bottle.
Chrymos had been planning for precisely that outcome. She had clasped the shield in front of her body and now used it as a battering ram, crashing into Ezequeel and knocking him off his feet. Then she flew to the top of the nearest sarcophagus and hovered slightly above it.
Ezequeel had been caught off guard but was unhurt. He spat out an angry challenge as he picked himself up. “Is that the best you can do? Then you’d better run as far from here as you can, Eleven, because nothing else will save you, girl.”
“I’m done with running,” said Chrymos, still hovering above the sarcophagus. “If you want me, come and get me. I’m right here.”
Ezequeel sent the mental command to summon his wings but stopped before they were fully formed, belatedly realizing that the chamber ceiling was too low because his wings were much larger than Chrymos’.
Grunting with annoyance, Ezequeel was forced to use his hands and feet instead. He clambered onto the sarcophagus, making heavy going of the task.
“Putting on a little weight, are we?” Chrymos taunted the demon—but made certain she hovered just out of reach of his vicious sword.
Ezequeel growled as he straightened up and stomped across the sarcophagus towards Chrymos. “Stay where you are, angel spawn, and face up to your fate.”
Chrymos flew a short distance backwards, until she was hovering over the next sarcophagus in line. She was still tantalizingly close to the increasingly more enraged demon. “I’m only over here,” she said, “or is that a little too far for you to jump?”
Ezequeel snarled. He eyed up the distance between sarcophagi, took a couple of steps backwards, and then made the jump, landing heavily on the next sarcophagus. The stone slab almost seemed to shudder from the impact.
“You’re nearly out of room, Eleven,” Ezequeel told Chrymos. She glanced behind her. Two more sarcophagi and then a wall.
“Then you’d better come and capture me before I trap myself,” Chrymos retorted, timing her own backward flight to match his stomping progress along the sarcophagus.
Once again, she moved across, hovering above yet another sarcophagus. Once again, Ezequeel leapt from one sarcophagus to the next.
This time, however, as the giant demon thundered down onto the top of the new sarcophagus, it shook unsteadily.
It shook and then, as Chrymos had been hoping, the sarcophagus collapsed through the weakened floor beneath, taking the demon with it in an uncontrollable avalanche of stone and rock.
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SIX
Catacombs of San Gennaro, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 8.27 a.m. Wednesday June 23 1610
Chrymos flew above the collapsed sarcophagus and stared down at Ezequeel. The demon lay in the midst of the rubble, covered by slabs of stone and rocks. As Chrymos watched, he began to stir, pus
hing the debris aside in an effort to get free.
Chrymos hovered above him and spoke from her heart. “I’ve spent the last five months hoping that some magical power would turn me into someone who matters and who could make a difference.
“Now that I know who I really am, even though I don’t have any special powers, I realize that I don’t need them. I was searching in the wrong place—I only needed to look inside myself.
“You, Nekhbet and the rest of your Darke Warrior kind have tried and failed to break my spirit for more than ten thousand years.
“You couldn’t do it then, you won’t do it today.”
That last challenge goaded Ezequeel back into action, which was exactly what Chrymos had intended. As the demon pulled himself free of the collapsed sarcophagus, Chrymos reached into her pocket and extracted the glass jar, which she had carried with her throughout her catacombs journey.
Chrymos dashed the jar against the stone floor, closing her eyes just before the moment of impact. The glass shattered, instantly allowing the metal strip within to react to the air and flare into radiant bright light. Even through her closed eyelids, Chrymos was momentarily dazzled by the brightness, especially in comparison to the semi-darkened catacombs.
Protecting her eyes from the worst of the glare, Chrymos looked over at Ezequeel. He staggered, clutching at his eyes. As I hoped, he’s been temporarily blinded.
Seizing her opportunity, Chrymos clutched the shield of Evalach with both hands and slammed it down with all her strength on Ezequeel’s unprotected head—once, twice, and then a third time. “My name,” she said as she pounded the Darke Warrior, “is not Eleven. It’s Chrymos.”
Ezequeel slowly crumpled to the floor.
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVEN
Catacombs of San Gennaro, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 8.28 a.m. Wednesday June 23 1610
Chrymos flew down to the ground to reassure herself that Ezequeel was definitely unconscious. Then she called to Adric. “Are you okay?”
After a moment, the call came back. “Yes, I’m fine. What’s happening?” Adric’s head popped up beside the sarcophagus where he had landed. He looked over at Chrymos, who was still brightly illuminated by the burning metal, though the light was diminishing as the metal was consumed.
“I’ve knocked Ezequeel out,” Chrymos reported. “We’re safe for now, but we won’t want to be here when he wakes up.”
Adric came over and joined her where she stood, near the fallen Ezequeel. His nose wrinkled at the smell. “Not pleasant.”
“No,” agreed Chrymos. “All the demons smell bad, but Ezequeel is the worst of the lot.”
Adric examined the body, carefully avoiding the cockroaches and other vermin swarming across the armor. “Can demons die?” he suddenly asked.
“Not as such,” said Chrymos. “Their bodies can be destroyed, yes, but they simply get resurrected in Hades. It’s more of an inconvenience for them than anything else. Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “then they have to retrain their bodies before they can become active again, which does take them out of our hair for some time.”
Chrymos and Adric had clearly both had the same idea. Adric reached for Ezequeel’s axe, but Chrymos pushed him away. “Best that I do it,” she said. “The demons already hate me.”
A few minutes later, the job was done.
“Now let’s get out of here,” said Chrymos, tossing the axe aside. “We still have to get back to the Academy and save the children.”
She summoned her wings with a cheerful declaration. “And this time, I’m not taking any tunnels.”
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-EIGHT
The Mortality Room, Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 8.29 a.m. Wednesday June 23 1610
Giambattista Della Porta was not happy, and everyone in the mortality room knew it. He screamed at Doctor Odaldi. “I’ve waited for you as long as I can. There’s no more time. We have to get these hosts onto the ship NOW!”
“One more minute, Master, please,” Odaldi begged. He wore a plague doctor mask and gown as he bent over one of the beds, trying to extract fluids from the dying woman who lay there.
“NO—MORE—TIME!” shouted Della Porta, pushing Odaldi roughly aside. Father Carracci, who had been standing quietly to one side, beckoned for the nurses to remove the remaining patients—two women, two girls and one young boy.
The nurses led their five charges outside, through the backdoor exit, while Odaldi followed, furious. He was not accustomed to being treated in such a manner, especially not by the Academy’s leader. “I nearly had it,” he muttered to himself.
Della Porta wasn’t paying attention to Odaldi. Instead, he was listening to the sporadic bursts of musket-fire coming from the front of the building. He smiled when he heard screaming. Finally, we’re getting somewhere.
He was still smiling when the Darke Warrior Nekhbet entered the room. Even Della Porta shivered whenever he saw the demon, especially during daylight hours.
Nekhbet spoke briskly. “You shouldn’t be smiling, Della Porta—those are the sounds of your men and the men from New Phoenicia dying. You’re losing this fight.”
“What do you mean?” asked Della Porta.
“The Outcast Angels have brought reinforcements from the French Royal Guard,” said Nekhbet. “The guardsmen are highly trained—and they’re thirsty for revenge for the murder of their beloved king.”
“Murder? We were not involved with the king’s assassination. In fact, we tried to prevent it,” protested Della Porta.
“I wouldn’t be too sure, Della Porta,” said Nekhbet, turning her attention to Thomas Carracci. “What do you think, Father? What mischief have you and the Contessa been stirring up behind the Master’s back?”
Carracci tried to bluster his way out of the accusation. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“We’ll see,” said Nekhbet with a sly grin. “Jesse was not the only prophet exiled from Heaven on the day of the Great Rebellion.”
Whatever else might have been said at that moment was lost when the air shimmered and two figures appeared out of nowhere.
One appeared to be a Darke Warrior, a glowing blue gem on his wrist. The other was a blond man of average height, wearing a simple tunic.
The Darke Warrior bowed low to Nekhbet. “Mistress, may I present to you the Emperor Nero.”
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE
At that very same moment
Stonehenge, England, 7.30 a.m. Wednesday June 23 1610
Jesse stood talking to Archimedes at the moment that the pathgem returned to Earth. The instant that the possible became the new reality, millions upon millions of dramatically-altered futures battered Jesse’s mind.
Life after life after life changed, and always for the worst. Now it was no longer only the world’s rulers at risk—every living human being was affected.
No mind, human or angel, could withstand such trauma. Jesse collapsed.
# # #
Archimedes instantly summoned the healers.
They ministered to Jesse for several hours. Finally, their leader Aceso, grim-faced, reported to Archimedes. “Jesse is in a very deep sleep from which he might never recover. All we can do is watch and wait.”
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY
Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 8.30 a.m. Wednesday June 23 1610
Nekhbet executed a dramatic sweeping curtsey, greeting the newly-arrived Roman emperor. “It is my very great pleasure to meet you, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Nero, still stunned, managed a brief nod.
Nekhbet turned to the Darke Warrior. “And I see that you have the pathgem back. Well done, Ezequeel—better late than never.”
The Darke Warrior smiled.
Meanwhile Della Porta, once he had overcome his shock at seeing the pair appear out of thin air, scurried over to Nero, threw himself down on the floor, and attempted to address the emperor in halting Latin. “Salutem imperator—et honorem multum—accipietis�
��a me est—honor recipiam vos—in domum meam.”
The emperor looked down at the man lying in front of him, muttered one word, “Barbarus,” and stepped over the prostrate figure, speaking quickly to his Darke Warrior companion. Della Porta slowly pushed himself up off the floor, muttering. “He called me a barbarian. Me? Fifteen hundred years his superior?”
Carracci hurried over and helped the devastated Master to his feet.
Nekhbet was about to make a comment, when she received an unexpected mind-message. She listened, and then addressed the Darke Warrior. “I’ve just been advised that a few minutes ago Ezequeel was resurrected in Hades. Of course, I should have already seen your probabilities. It’s not him, it’s you.”
The Darke Warrior nodded. His figure flickered, revealing his true identity.
Carracci and Della Porta gasped, virtually in unison. “Ruben? Is that you?” asked Carracci.
Nekhbet had her own questions for the unmasked mimic. “So your sister found the pathgem, then?”
Ruben nodded again.
“Amazing,” said Nekhbet. “She really did it? I never would have believed it if I hadn’t foreseen it with my own eyes. Well, good for her. I hope she enjoyed her triumph, while it lasted.”
Nekhbet turned to Della Porta. “Thank you for providing the conditions that enabled Eleven—the one you know as Chrymos—to find the pathgem. We’ll take it from here.”
She sent a mind-message skywards.
Nekhbet turned back to Ruben. “Ready?”
“By your command, mistress,” said Ruben, taking hold of Nero’s arm once more.
Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series Page 36
