“You have not because you ask not,” Beth said.
“Or you have because you do.”
“Praying,” she said, “is like picking up a shield.”
“Too few of us think of it as being so real,” he said. “But it is.”
She leaned away from him and nodded. She ran her fingers across her cheeks, and Gheronda produced a white handkerchief from inside his robe. She used it to dab under her nose. “So,” she said, “will you help me pick up a shield? For Tyler?”
He smiled and bowed his head.
[ 82 ]
“I guess he didn’t tell you everything,” Jordan said.
“What do you mean, ‘brothers’?” A part of Tyler was thinking, Yeah, we’re all brothers and sisters in God’s eyes. But a larger part knew that’s not what Jordan meant. He remembered Mom saying that when she woke up in the Paris catacombs, Jordan was in her cell. She had tears in her eyes and through them thought Jordan was Tyler. “He does look like you,” she’d said. “But you’re way cuter.”
And Dad, describing his and Owen’s breaking into the catacombs to get Mom—he’d said Jordan had been peeking out at them from a wall of skulls, and Dad had thought for a second that it was Tyler.
Staring at Jordan now, Tyler recognized the way the corners of the boy’s mouth extended a little beyond his lips and curved up, making him look like he was smiling even when he wasn’t. And the eyes, almond-shaped. They were the same features he saw when he looked into the mirror. When he looked at Dad.
But why hadn’t Dad told him? Unless even Dad didn’t know. He had lost his memory in the crash, all of what had happened to him before meeting Mom. Could he not know he had an immortal son? He would have known before the crash. Which flooded Tyler’s mind with all sorts of disturbing questions: How could he have left his son to marry Mom? Did that mean he could leave Tyler as well?
Tyler felt sick.
Answering Tyler’s question, Jordan said, “Kin. Siblings. Brothers. Well, half brothers. Jagger is my father too.”
“You’re lying,” Tyler said.
“Look at us. We could practically be twins.”
They weren’t that similar, Tyler thought. “I don’t believe you, but even if I did—” He stopped. Stomping, coming closer, fast. Had to be Phin—he was pounding over the hard granite and loose rocks of the foothills, coming down the mountain.
“Here!” Jordan screamed, turning his face up. “I’m here!”
Tyler jumped up, tossing away the support beam. As much as he would have liked nothing more than to give Jordan another knot on his crown, it was pointless now. He had to get out of there. He jumped up, pulled himself out of the hole, and saw Phin cross through a swath of light at the back outside corner of the monastery. He was taking ten-foot strides, rising six feet into the air with each one. Arms in a classic sprinter’s pose, pivoting forward and back, forward and back—their motion obvious because of the swords he held in his hand. He was grinning.
Tyler ran toward the front of the monastery. Floodlights high on the wall illuminated the facade, the stone court and front walkway, the narrow valley floor, and the beginnings of the opposite mountain’s foothills. They would turn off automatically at ten. As he ran for the lighted area, Tyler wondered why. He couldn’t get in the gate. There were no guards and—tonight—not even any tourists milling around. But there were numerous outbuildings on the far side—the charnel house, where the bones of monks dating back to sixth century were stored; storehouses; way up the road, a guardhouse manned only during daylight hours—and the gardens. Yes, he could hide there, in the trees, crouched under the bushes.
He looked and realized he’d never make it. Phin had angled toward him and was approaching like a lion attacking an injured gazelle. Tyler pushed harder, forcing his hurt knee to keep up. He reached a split-rail fence and rolled over the top. Phin was almost on him. He dropped onto the path that crossed in the front of the monastery, went around the dig and up the mountain. He was under the lights now, feeling more exposed, more vulnerable.
Why’d I come this way? he admonished himself. Stupid! He should have gone deeper into the valley, where the rock formations would have given him cover. The answer came to him like news that a close friend had died suddenly—a feeling he knew from experience, the awful sensation that your guts, from heart down, had come loose and fallen into a pile at the bottom of your torso. The reason he’d run this way was because under normal circumstances, this is where the people were—and he didn’t want to die alone. But who he really wanted was his mother. He was closer to her here than he would have been out there, in the dark, barren wilderness. Of course, she might as well be on the moon. He couldn’t get to her, couldn’t even see her.
Before reaching the front of the monastery, he heard Phin behind—clomp, clomp, CLOMP—then nothing, silence. Seconds later the man landed in front of him, facing him, backpedaling to a stop. “Ha ha!” Grinning, Phin made a beckoning gesture with both swords and said, “Come into my parlor . . .”
Said the spider to the fly, Tyler’s mind finished automatically as he spun and ran the other direction.
Phin clomped behind. Tyler heard the sound, followed by silence, and looked straight up, raising his hands in defense. Phin soared overhead, turning slowly, balletically. He came down ten feet in front of Tyler. He said, “You’re all eyes, Master Tyler, but I can fix that.” He scraped his blades together.
Tyler turned, heading again for the monastery’s front court, waiting for the clomping, the silence, the abrupt appearance of his enemy in front of him. His heart, wanting none of this, pounded on his chest to get out.
“Phin!” It was Jordan, calling from the excavation. “Stop it!”
Tyler glanced over his shoulder. Phin was still where he’d landed, looking off into the dark archaeological site. He yelled, “What you mean is ‘end it.’” He bowed, twirling a sword in a flourish. “Yes, sir!”
“Phin, no!”
Phin lowered his head like a bull and charged. He ran without the high, arching strides, his legs moving at twice a normal man’s speed.
Tyler realized he had slowed to watch, listen.
Stupid!
He darted past the only rounded tower in the wall, at the northeast corner, and now the front wall loomed to his left. He was approaching the wall’s other tower, the odd-shaped Central Tower—a large rectangle with bulging, rounded corners—that housed the Chapel of St. George, the dragon killer. On the far side was the main gate.
Phin’s clomping footsteps grew louder, quicker.
“End it,” he’d said.
Thinking of the gardens, Tyler ignored the front gate—melded into place by last night’s blast, anyway. He yelled, a groaning scream that he hoped would not be the last thing he heard on earth.
Phin obliged, laughing and saying, “Run, run as fast as you can . . .”
You can’t catch me. I’m the Gingerbread Man!
He looked back again and stopped.
Phin was heading straight for him, his fists by his ears, swords raised, like an ad Tyler had seen in a magazine of a hungry, bibbed diner with his utensils held high, anxious to dig in. But what had made Tyler stop was what he’d seen hiding behind the main tower’s curving wall.
Phin said, “You’re not giving up, are—?”
Father Leo stepped out from the shadows and swung a shovel into Phin’s face.
Phin’s momentum sent his body sailing forward—parallel to the ground. He thudded to the stones of the courtyard in front of the gate, out cold. Blood gushed from his nostrils and from a gouge across the bridge of his nose.
“Leo!” Tyler yelled and ran for him, arms wide open.
Leo tossed the shovel down and scooped Tyler up, squeezing him tightly. Tyler pushed his face into Leo’s shoulder and started to cry. Leo rubbed his back. “You’re safe now. It’s okay.”
“What about Mom?”
“She’s fine. I’ll take you to her.” He carried Tyler toward the gar
dens. Tyler realized the monk was wearing only black slacks and a white tee. He said, “Where’s your robe?”
“It got a little hot, so I took it off.”
Movement over Leo’s shoulder drew Tyler’s attention. Phin was up, wiping his forearm across his mouth.
Tyler meant to say, “Leo, it’s Phin!” but what came out was a stuttering scream. Leo turned and they watched Phin stoop to pick up his swords. He began walking toward them, weaving the first few steps, then finding his balance, picking up speed.
Leo set Tyler down. “Run,” he said.
[ 83 ]
Light high on the monastery’s front wall turned the area into an arena.
Phin moved toward Leo, twin swords slicing the air in front of him.
Tyler, crouching behind an emaciated bush, pressed his back into the wall that separated the walkway from the valley floor. He wished he could do something to help. He saw the shovel Leo had used to deck Phin; it was lying back by the main gate. Leo needed something to defend himself against the swords, and it didn’t look like he could get to it himself, not with Phin between him and the shovel.
At the far end of the front wall, near the round tower, Jordan appeared. He stopped when he saw Phin and Leo.
Don’t you do anything to help Phin, Tyler thought. You do, I’ll be all over you.
As Phin narrowed the gap between himself and his opponent, the men edged out from the wall, centering themselves on the wide walkway. Tyler realized he couldn’t reach the shovel now either. Phin would cut him down before he’d taken three steps.
He started to pray . . . eyes open, unable to not watch.
Phin and that crazy smile. He said, “Ironic, isn’t it, monk? We both do God’s work. And here we are, facing off.”
Leo said, “The irony is that you think you do His work.”
Hunched, the men sidestepped, as if tracing the same circular path from opposite sides. They reminded Tyler of the high school wrestling matches his father used to bring him to in support of a neighbor’s son. Leo was steady, cool; Phin jittery, anxious to get it on.
“Don’t I?” Phin asked, whipping his swords through the air. “The wages of sin is death. I don’t make the rules, brother. I just enforce them.” He leaped at Leo, the blades blender-fast. Leo jumped sideways, spun, and hit Phin in the spine with his fists clasped together. Phin stumbled forward, swung around.
Leo backed away. He said, “And here you are, trying to murder a monk and a little boy.”
Phin’s facial muscles tightened. It took him a moment to respond. “Those who get in the way of good are bad.”
Leo gave him a sideways look. “Where in Scripture is that exactly?”
Circling. Both men tense, ready.
Leo continued: “Is that how you justified wiping out that family in Buenos Aires?”
Phin looked puzzled. He blinked a few times. “They were harboring a Nazi war criminal.”
“They were his family. The children weren’t even born when he committed his crimes.”
Phin shook his head. “That was . . . forty years ago. How do you know—?”
“And that woman in London? Your getaway carriage ran her over. You dragged her three hundred feet.”
Phin’s shoulders sagged. His swords drooped until their tips clinked against the walkway’s stone pavers. He whispered, “Two hundred years ago. No one knew that.”
“You look for reasons to kill,” Leo said. “You wear blood as cologne.”
Phin seemed to swell: his chest puffed out, his shoulders came up, one sword-wielding arm rose high, the other stayed low. With an animalistic bellow, he attacked Leo. One blade arced up toward Leo’s belly, the other down at his shoulder.
Tyler willed his eyes to close, but they didn’t obey.
Leo stepped back, just enough to avoid the blades. They flashed past, and as Phin’s hands became even with each other at chest level, Leo advanced, seizing both of his opponent’s wrists. He crossed his arms, forcing Phin to cross his, and pushed one up as he pulled the other down. From Tyler’s perspective, the monk was attempting to tie Phin’s arms into a knot.
Something had to give, and it was Phin’s wrist, which twisted backward and released a sword. Leo caught it as it fell and stepped back quickly. Phin was down on one knee, clutching a sword and glaring at his wrist as he rotated the hand attached to it. He looked up at Leo, surprise replacing his ferocious snarl.
He said, “Looks like someone else has some experience with violence.”
Leo closed his eyes, opened them slowly. “Regretfully so.”
Phin sprang up, spinning, slicing the sword on a plane with Leo’s neck. Leo ducked and lunged. Phin twisted, and Leo’s blade opened a wound in his thigh. Phin seemed to pirouette behind Leo and plunge his sword back, as though putting it into a scabbard at his ribs.
Leo gasped, jumped away. He was holding his right arm, blood seeping between his fingers. He switched the sword to his left hand.
Phin was on him: he brought his sword over his head and chopped down at Leo. Leo parried, holding his sword above his head. The blades clanged and sparked, clanged and sparked, as Phin continued to chop, raising his sword only inches before plunging down again, preventing Leo from swinging his weapon. Leo kicked Phin, who staggered back. Leo thrust at Phin’s chest.
Phin hopped back, landed flat on both feet. The shoes shot him straight up. Over Leo’s head, he turned. Coming down behind Leo, Phin held out his sword, slicing Leo from scalp to tailbone.
Leo opened his mouth in a silent scream, dropped his sword, and followed it to the ground.
Tyler gave voice to the scream Leo couldn’t get out. He started at the monk, lying still not six feet away.
Phin stood at Leo’s feet, the sword gripped tightly, his face fierce and triumphant. His gaze rose and locked on Tyler. Slowly a smile returned to his lips. He stepped over Leo and stopped in front of Tyler. He raised his sword over his head.
Tyler pushed away, sliding against the wall.
“Sorry, kid,” Phin said.
Phin’s back exploded, sparks flying out from behind him. Tyler caught a flash of shock and pain on Phin’s face, then the man sailed over him, hurled by the blast.
But he hadn’t exploded. He’d been pushed.
Tyler stared, more fear gripping him than when Phin had the blade poised above his head. His entire body shook. Unable to blink, tears filled the edge of his lower lids and spilled over.
Leaning forward in what Tyler thought was a martial arts pose—rear leg straight, front one bent; one arm cocked back, ready to strike, the other extended, hand flat, as though pressed against an invisible wall—a man scowled out into the valley, presumably at Phin. He was huge, tall and muscular—and he was glowing. A rippling white robe covered his body from neck to feet.
The man relaxed, pulling in his legs and arms, standing upright. From directly behind him came something like an explosion in slow motion: millions of sparks and tiny spinning orbs like orange diamonds billowed out. They curved up over the man’s head, around his sides, then they came back in, forming—Tyler’s mouth gaped wider—wings. They beat the air in a slow, smooth rhythm.
He smiled down at Tyler, extended a hand. “Tyler,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”
Tyler’s hand rose to his chest, feeling for the bullet he’d worn around his neck for the past six months—his symbol of courage and victory. Then he remembered, it was gone.
Tyler’s lips quivered, making speech difficult. He managed to say, “Who are you?”
“You knew me as Father Leo.”
Tyler’s heart stopped—could it do that, actually stop? It seemed everything inside him turned into something else, one big lump of boy-shaped Silly Putty. But then he recognized the man’s features. The eyes were blue instead of brown, the facial hair was gone, the skin smoother, more perfectly formed than he’d ever seen. But it was Leo.
Tyler said, “Are you . . . an angel?”
The new Leo nodded. “Yes.�
�
Tyler knew better, but he had to ask: “Because you died?”
“While you knew me, I had taken on human form. But I’ve always been an angel.”
Tyler stood. “I knew it!” he said. “There was something strange about Leo . . . you.” The meaning of what he’d said caught up to him, and he said, “Sorry. I mean, you were always vanishing. There and . . . just gone. And smiling. My mom said it was like you knew things everyone else didn’t.”
“I guess that’s true.”
Tyler took a step forward, pushing through the bush’s bare branches. He realized he could see the shape of the angel’s body: massive chest tapering to the hips, legs tapering to the feet. But the way he glowed so brightly with a white, pulsing light, he appeared—only appeared—to be covered in flowing material. Tyler couldn’t help but smile. “Are you . . . naked?”
“I’m clothed in my Father’s glory.”
Tyler leaned to peer behind the angel at the empty walkway. “Where’s your human body?”
“It’s a part of me, or used to be. We don’t inhabit bodies; we form into them so perfectly that we need food and rest, we bleed, feel pain, and shed tears.”
“If you’re so human when you’re . . . human, how’d you vanish? And my dad told me something weird happened when he was with Dr. Ollie. You wiped away some blood, and his cuts disappeared. Dad said he must have imagined the cuts, but he didn’t, did he?”
“Sometimes,” the angel said, “I cheated.”
Tyler gasped. Angels cheat?
Concern came over the angel’s face—just a slight crease between the eyebrows. He said, “With God’s blessing, of course.” He winked, and any doubt that this being was truly Leo left Tyler.
“Did God send you?”
“Of course.”
“It must be cool being an angel,” Tyler said, thinking, Flying and going through walls, never having to sleep or eat or go to the bathroom . . .
“Being in constant communion with God,” the angel said.
“Yeah . . . that too,” Tyler said. “Did you hate it here, as a human?”
Judgment Stone (9781401687359) Page 32
