“Is that Christ as a child?” Erin asked.
Arella lifted her face to them. “This tells how a young boy went alone into the desert to find a hidden spring. He was not yet eleven years old, and he played among the sands, among the pools, as boys do.”
Rhun’s blood stirred at the thought, of Jesus as a boy, playing in the desert like any other innocent child.
Arella stepped to the next panel, drawing them with her. Here the curly-headed boy reached the pool. A bird rested on the opposite bank, with etched lines radiating out from its body.
Erin studied the drawing, a crease pinching her brow. “What happened?”
“You are the Woman of Learning,” Arella said. “You must tell me.”
Erin dropped to a knee and traced the lines in the panel, picking out further details. “The boy is carrying a sling in his right hand, stones in his left. So he was hunting . . . or maybe playing. Acting out David’s fight with Goliath.”
Arella smiled, radiant with peace. “Just so. But there was no Goliath here in the desert. Just a small white dove with brilliant green eyes.”
Tommy let out a gasp, staring over at the woman. “I saw a dove like that in Masada . . . with a broken wing.”
Her smile wilted into sadness. “As did another long before you.”
“You’re talking about Judas . . .” Tommy dropped next to Erin, taking a closer look at the bird. “He said he saw one, too. When he was a boy. The morning he met Jesus.”
Erin glanced at Tommy, then Arella. “The dove has always been the symbol of the Holy Spirit for the Church.”
Rhun struggled to understand how this one bird could possibly bind the three boys together. And more important, why?
Arella simply turned away, her face impassive, moving to the next panel, making them follow.
On this square of glass, a stone flew from the boy’s sling and struck the bird, leaving one wing clearly broken.
“He hit the bird,” Erin said, sounding shocked.
“He had meant only to strike near it, to frighten it. But intentions are not enough.”
“What does that mean?” asked Tommy.
Erin explained. “Just because you want something to happen a certain way doesn’t necessarily mean that it does.”
Rhun heard the grief in the beat of Tommy’s heart. The boy had already learned that lesson well.
As did I.
The next panel told a grimmer end to this childish play. Here the curly-headed boy held the dove in his palms, its neck hanging limply.
“The stone did more than break its wing,” Erin said. “It killed it.”
“How he wished he could take back his action,” Arella said.
Rhun understood that sentiment, too, picturing Elisabeta’s face in sunshine.
Tommy turned to Arella, one eye narrowed. “How do you know what Jesus did, what he thought?”
“I could say that it is because I am old and wise, or that I am a prophetess. But I know these things because the child told them to me. He came rushing back from the desert, covered in sand and soot, and this was His story.”
Erin turned wide eyes upon the woman. “So you did more than lead the holy family to Siwa. You stayed here, looking after them.”
Arella bowed her head.
Christian crossed himself. Even Rhun’s hand went unbidden to the cross around his neck. This woman had known Christ, had shared His early triumphs and sorrows. She was far holier than Rhun could ever hope to be.
Arella waved her arm around the crater. “Jesus stood then where we stand now.”
Rhun pictured the well and the pool it must have once held. He imagined the bird and the boy along its banks. But what happened after that?
Arella moved along the ring of panels. The next revealed the boy casting his arms high. Rays, inscribed into the glass, shot upward from his palms. And amid those beams, the dove flew high, wings straight out.
“He healed it,” Erin said.
“No,” Arella said. “He restored it to life.”
“His first miracle,” Rhun breathed.
“It was.” She did not sound exulted by this act. “But the light of this miracle caught the dark eyes of another, someone who had been searching for him since the moment the angel came to Mary with his joyous message.”
“King Herod?” Jordan asked.
“No, a far greater enemy than Herod could ever be.”
“So not a man, I’m guessing?” Erin said.
Arella drew them to the next panel, where the boy faced a figure of smoke with eyes of fire. “It was indeed no man, but rather an implacable enemy, one who ambushed the boy not because of his hatred of the Christ child, but because he sought always to undo His father.”
“You’re talking about Lucifer,” Erin said, her voice hushed by dread.
Rhun stared at the glass, at the dark angel challenging the young Christ child—as Satan would do once again, when he would tempt Christ in the desert, when the Savior was a man.
“The Father of Lies came here, ready to do battle,” Arella explained. “But someone came to the boy’s defense.”
She stepped along the ring of art to reveal the boy now enfolded in the wings of an angel, just as the sibyl had enfolded Tommy that very morning.
“Another angel came to help him.” Erin turned to Arella. “Was it you?”
The other’s face softened. “Would that it had been, but it was not.”
Rhun understood the regret in her voice. What a privilege it would have been to have saved Christ.
“Who was it then?” Erin asked.
Arella nodded to the panel. It was still partially obscured by drifting sand. Rhun helped Erin clear it, the holiness burning his palms.
Erin pinched away a few final grains, noticing that it wasn’t only wings that guarded over the boy, but a sword, clutched in the hand of the angel.
Erin looked up at Arella. “The archangel Michael. The angel who fought Lucifer during the war in Heaven. The only one to ever wound Lucifer, striking him in the side with a sword.”
Arella took a deep breath. “Michael was always Heaven’s first and best sword, and so it was this time. He came down and shielded the boy from his former adversary.”
“What happened?” Jordan asked.
Arella bowed her head, as if unwilling to say. Rhun listened to the whisper of wind against sand, to the humans’ heartbeats. Sounds as eternal as the sibyl herself.
When he was certain that she would speak no more, he stepped by himself to the next sun-warmed panel. It depicted an explosion emanating from the boy, the lines shattering out from his thin form, stripping anything else off the panel.
Rhun lifted his face and swept his gaze around the crater. He tried to imagine a blast fierce enough to melt sand to glass. What could survive that? He pictured the angel’s wings shielding the mortal boy from the backlash.
But what of Christ’s defender?
Rhun turned to Arella. “How could Michael withstand such a miraculous blast from the child?”
“He could not.” She sighed softly, turning her back on the ring of art. “Michael was rent asunder.”
Rent asunder?
“All that remained of him was his sword, left abandoned here in the crater.”
Rhun reached the last panel. It showed only a chipped sword embedded point down in the crater. He scanned the arc of this story, trying to comprehend it fully.
Christ’s merciful act of restoring the life of a simple dove had resulted in the very destruction of an angel. How had the boy been able to forgive himself? Had it haunted him?
Rhun found himself on his knees before this last panel, covering his face. He had destroyed Elisabeta, a mere woman, and it still plagued him across the centuries. He was responsible for destroying her life and all those lives that followed in her bloody wake. Yet, in this moment, his hands did not hide his grief and shame, but his relief, recognizing the small measure of comfort offered by this tale.
Thank you
, Lord.
Simply knowing that Christ himself could make a mistake lightened his own burden. This realization did not forgive Rhun’s sins, but it made them easier to carry.
Erin spoke up. “What became of Michael’s sword?”
“The boy came to me afterward, carrying a splinter of that sword in his hands.”
Arella touched her chest.
“That was the shard that you wore,” Erin said. “The one used to stab Tommy.”
She looked apologetically upon the boy. “It was.”
A piece of that angelic sword.
“Where is the rest of it?” Jordan asked, ever the warrior.
Arella’s serene voice grew shaky, as if the memory troubled her. “The boy told me that he had sinned when he killed the dove . . . and sinned again when he brought it back. That he was not ready for such responsibility of miracles.”
“So you’re saying Christ’s first miracle was a sin?” Jordan asked.
“He thought it was. But then again, in many ways, he was simply a scared, guilt-ridden boy. The truth is not for me to judge.”
Erin urged her to continue. “What happened after that?”
“He told me the rest of his story.” She waved an arm. “Then I calmed the boy and put him to bed, and I searched for the truth behind his words. I found this crater, the sword in its smoking center. Searching farther out, I discovered Lucifer’s footsteps to the south, stained by drops of his black blood.”
Rhun looked to the south. Now brought to his attention, he discovered a taint cutting through the holiness from that direction, faint but present.
Were those drops still out there?
“But of Michael,” Arella continued, “I found no trace.”
“And his sword?”
“It remains hidden,” she said. “Until the First Angel returns to Earth.”
“But isn’t that me?” Tommy asked.
Arella’s dark eyes lingered on Tommy for a silent moment, then she spoke. “You carry the best of him within you, but you are not the First Angel.”
“I don’t understand,” Tommy said.
Erin glanced at Rhun.
None of them did.
No wonder the boy could not bless the book.
Bitter disappointment coursed through Rhun. All the deaths to bring Tommy here had been in vain. So many had suffered and bled and died in pursuit of the wrong angel. And with the gates of Hell continuing to open, the world’s doom was now certain.
They had failed.
“Helicopter,” Christian said, stiffening in warning next to him.
Arella turned her eyes to the north, where she had been gazing frequently, as if she had expected as much. “So they all come at last. To see if what was once broken can be mended.”
“And what if it can’t?” Erin asked. She noted the sun sitting not far from the horizon. Sunset was little more than an hour away.
Rhun dreaded the answer.
“If it cannot”—Arella brushed her hands across her soiled white dress—“then the reign of man on Earth is over.”
50
December 20, 3:28 P.M. EET
Siwa, Egypt
If I only had their ears . . .
Jordan cocked his head, trying to discern any sign of a helicopter’s approach, but all he heard was the swish of wind across sand. He tried his eyes, but he found only a featureless tan horizon, sand dunes spreading in all directions, and a few flat-topped hills in the distance. Above him, the sky had turned a dark gray, the sun a wan brightness through the murk, sitting low this time in winter.
Jordan sized up their team’s ability to resist an attack—in case it was an assault force winging their way.
Who am I kidding? he thought. Of course it’s an attack.
His team certainly had no cover out here in the open, and the two Sanguinists were their best defense—and offense, for that matter.
But how many were coming?
If it was Iscariot, the bastard had boundless resources: men, strigoi, even the monstrous blasphemare.
He turned to Christian. “How about flying to someplace more defensible?”
“The bird is almost out of gas, but even if it weren’t, it’s not fast enough to outrun the machine that approaches.”
Jordan pictured the hellfire missiles shot at them.
“I see,” he said with a sigh.
He swung his machine pistol up from his shoulder. He had little ammunition left. Erin checked her pistol and shrugged. Same boat as him.
Jordan gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin.
From the expression on her face, he failed.
Then he heard a distant whump-whump. His eyes picked out a dark mote in the glare off the sands. A small commercial helicopter swept toward them, coming in low and fast. It could hold at best five or six enemies. And it certainly had no missiles.
That was at least a small blessing.
The pilot seemed to be pushing the craft beyond its limits. White smoke trailed behind it. Jordan widened his stance and lifted his pistol, aiming for the cockpit. If he could take out the pilot, maybe the chopper would crash and solve all his problems.
As the helicopter sped closer, Jordan sighted on the right side of the bubble-shaped front, where the pilot should be seated. He moved his finger to the trigger.
“Wait!” Christian pushed his gun barrel down.
Jordan backed a step. “Why?”
“It’s Bernard,” Rhun answered. “In front, next to the pilot.”
Okay, now I want their eyes, too.
Jordan wouldn’t have recognized his own mother at that distance.
“Is that good news or bad news?” he asked.
“He’s not likely to shoot us, if that’s what you’re asking,” Christian said. “But I don’t think he’s going to be happy with us either.”
“So mostly good news, then.”
The helicopter aimed straight for them and made a rough landing at the crater’s rim, teetering at the edge, smoke boiling out of the back of the engine as it coughed to a stop.
Bernard hopped out, accompanied by a massive pilot, a true beast of a man in a flight suit. The latter ripped off his helmet, revealing a shock of dark red hair. From the cabin behind them, two women joined them. The first out had her long gray hair tied in an efficient braid, wearing Sanguinist armor. The second wore jeans and a silver shirt, covered by a long cloak. That cloak billowed into wings as the woman broke away from the others. Jordan noted the flash of chains binding her wrists.
Bathory.
She came scary quick, swooping down the slope, half skidding on her backside, showing little concern about the indignity of her approach. Her face was a mask of concern, her eyes fixed to one member of their group.
“Elizabeth!” Tommy ran up to meet her and hugged her hard.
She tolerated it for a moment—then roughly pushed his chin up, examining his neck.
“You look well,” she said, but her terseness belied her true feelings.
Jordan leaned to Erin. “I don’t get what the boy sees in her.”
Bernard reached them, eyeing Tommy, too. “You were able to heal them both,” he said gruffly, glancing at Arella. “Very good.”
The two other Sanguinists flanked behind him, backing him up, both stone-faced.
Bernard pointed to the large man. He was even larger up close, a true tank of a man, with a barrel chest and thick arms covered in mats of curly red hair.
“This is Agmundr.”
The newcomer thumped a meaty fist against his chest and flashed a grin at Christian. He lifted his other arm proudly toward the smoking aircraft.
Christian sighed and shook his head. “So it looks like you trashed another helicopter. I thought I taught you better, Agmundr. It’s not a Viking warship. It’s a finely tuned piece of machinery.”
“It vexed me.” Agmundr’s voice rumbled out in a deep-throated Nordic accent. “Too slow.”
“Everything vexes you,” Christian scolded,
but they grasped each other’s forearm in a warm shake, earning Christian a slap on the back that almost dropped him to his knees. Jordan liked this Agmundr.
Bernard indicated the other Sanguinist. “And this is Wingu.”
The woman was black and stood taller than Jordan. Up close now, he saw her gray braid was decorated with feathers and wound by a colorful bead tie. Her face was stern, pocked with tribal scarring, small dots across her cheeks.
She gave them a simple nod, but her dark eyes took in everything.
“We have little time for pleasantries,” Bernard said, scanning the skies behind him. “We must bring the boy to the book. If he can be healed here, perhaps he can bless it here.”
“It is a holy site,” Erin said. “Possibly holier than St. Peter’s.”
Bernard frowned at the crater.
“This is where Christ performed his first miracle,” Erin explained. “When he was a child.”
Wingu spoke in a deep whisper, “I can sense great holiness here.”
Bernard slowly nodded, clearly feeling something, too, but he straightened and motioned to Tommy. “Then let us see if the book can be blessed upon this ground.”
Bathory let Tommy join them, but she looked reluctant. Not that she could do anything about it. Though she could walk under this ash-shrouded sky, she was clearly drained by the sun overhead, or maybe it was the holiness underfoot. Either way, she must know she could not resist the Sanguinists gathered here, on holy ground that gave them strength.
Bathory studied the pictures as she stepped across the ribbon of art. Her interest finally drew Bernard’s attention to the same. He did a double take, then moved closer himself, turning in a circle, his gaze sweeping from panel to panel, as if he were speed-reading.
He turned to Arella. “This is the story you destroyed in Jerusalem.” He strode to the last panel, bending a knee to touch the sword depicted there. His voice was full of anguish. “Why did you keep this from me?”
“The world was not ready,” she explained simply.
“Who are you to judge what the world is ready for?” Bernard stood, moving toward Arella with a hand on the hilt of his own sword.
Jordan touched his rifle.
Rhun blocked Bernard. “Stand down, old friend. Leave the past to the past. We must now face the present and the future.”
Innocent Blood Page 38
