Stealing Sacred Fire

by Constantine, Storm

  ‘I won’t listen to this!’ Shem snapped. ‘Just get on with it! I only have one vizier, and that’s you. I don’t believe you mean what you say. You can’t have changed that much.’

  Daniel laughed; it altered his face considerably. Shem dared to think the Daniel he knew still hid inside this prickly exterior. ‘All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps I just don’t relish the thought of living dangerously again.’

  ‘But that’s what makes life interesting,’ Shem said.

  Daniel was still grinning. ‘If you can hang on to it.’

  Dreams. It had all begun with dreams. Daniel tried to compose himself for sleep, listening to the crackings in the wall of the hotel. His mind seemed to skitter away from allowing any psychic impressions to enter into it. Was he afraid? He’d put up emotional barriers, but he’d always known that, one day, he’d have to continue the work he’d begun with Shem. Give in to it, he told himself. Open up.

  Gradually, he felt the old, familiar sensations creep up on him; the strange tension in his head, behind his eyes; the presence of half-heard voices whispering to him from far away.

  In the past, he’d used the image of Ishtahar to help him acquire psychic information. She was Shemyaza’s lost love, the woman who, a long time ago, had been the cause of his fall, and whose shade, even now, haunted the boundaries of Shem’s existence. Shem might not speak about her openly, yet Daniel knew that he hoped one day to be reunited with her. Ishtahar’s spirit had become Daniel’s goddess. Through her advice and encouragement, she had guided him through many strange experiences, present as a shadow in his awareness.

  In the darkness, Daniel whispered her name. ‘Ishtahar, it’s me, Daniel. Are you there? Will you speak to me?’

  He visualised her form; a slim, dark-haired young woman, clad in peacock blue veils. Yet the image would not come easily. Had he lost her? For years, he had not called upon her. Perhaps she felt shut out and abandoned, as Daniel had done by Shem. Daniel regulated his breathing, tried to concentrate on Ishtahar’s face, but all he could think about, bizarrely, was Lily’s daughter.

  His mind wandered, lost concentration. He knew he should have called Lily this evening. Before he’d set off for London, they’d managed to spend a couple of evenings together at High Crag and had discussed what Daniel should do.

  On the first night, they had chatted easily together, reminiscing more than anything, but on the second night, Lily had felt confident enough to speak her mind more stridently. She thought that Daniel should start putting his foot down with Shem, to show he could no longer be pushed around. ‘Remember how he used to treat you, Dan,’ she’d said. ‘He drove you ahead of him all of the way, to set off any traps that might have been laid for him.’

  While Daniel couldn’t dispute her words, neither could he explain the complexities of his relationship with Shem to her.

  As they’d shared a bottle of wine, Lily’s exhortations to him had grown louder. ‘Daniel, you must stand up for yourself!’

  Tired, he’d ended up sitting before her, murmuring, ‘Mmm, mmm,’ to everything she said. It had seemed easier than trying to tell her things he couldn’t even articulate to himself.

  Before she’d left the house, Lily had said, ‘You must ring me as soon as you’ve spoken to Shem. You will, won’t you?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he’d answered.

  He supposed that, even then, he hadn’t intended doing so.

  That night, as he’d got into bed, he’d glanced at the phone and remembered his promise, but he’d felt unable to face her demands and advice. He knew she cared about him deeply and secretly felt hurt that he’d not kept up their friendship, but she didn’t seem to realise that constantly telling him things he didn’t want to hear discouraged the contact.

  He fell into a restless sleep, thoughts churning round his mind, until he was unsure whether he was asleep or awake.

  Ishtahar stood waiting for him at the threshold of dreams. She leaned back against a closed, wooden doorway, set in a high, sun-drenched wall of mud bricks. The sky overhead was a perfect blue, and the air was filled with the scents of flowers and fragrant trees. Daniel walked towards her along a road of dust and ashes. He could not perceive what lay to either side.

  Ishtahar looked about eighteen years old. She was dressed, as always, in blue; a simple dress belted at the waist with a cord. Well-worn sandals of kid leather encased her feet. Her long black hair was plaited, and the rope of it fell over one shoulder, undulating around the curve of a breast.

  She smiled in welcome, reaching out with one hand to push open the gate in the wall. ‘Come, Daniel.’ She disappeared into a hazy, blue-white light.

  Daniel followed her through it and they emerged into a vast, terraced garden that soared up, slope upon slope, until it disappeared into a dark haze of cedar forest. It was an enchanted place, and Daniel knew it well: Kharsag, the garden in Eden. Large white dwellings could be seen, partially screened by carefully-placed foliage. These were the domains of the Anannage lords and their households.

  A host of people, whom Daniel knew to be human labourers of both sexes, worked on the terraces, baskets tied to their bent backs as they weeded and pruned among the riot of foliage. Plants from many different climates flourished together; fan-leaved ferns next to tiny desert flowers. Among the huge, obsidian glass domes of the green-houses, waterfalls flashed from terrace to terrace; rainbow light danced in the air. Once, in a far distant life, Daniel had been born in this place, nurtured to be Shemyaza’s vizier. How different his role had become in comparison to the days of leisurely contemplation, when he’d scryed the universe for his master, spellbound by rarefied ideas and abstract thoughts. Shemyaza and he we now firmly entrenched in the new century of their birth, as alien to their past selves as spirit forms were to humans.

  Ishtahar waited for him beneath a spreading cedar, sunlight dappling her bare arms.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ he asked her.

  Ishtahar pointed up through the spreading branches. ‘Look, do you see that white building up there? That is the house of Shemyaza.’

  Reluctantly, Daniel followed her gaze. ‘Yes, I remember it. Is that what I’m here to see? I need to know about Gadreel. Shem thinks he’s still alive or has been reincarnated. Tell me, Ishtahar, is he right? Are there other Watchers waiting to be found?’

  Ishtahar only smiled and, reaching for his hand, began to lead him through an orchard, where some trees were in fruit, others not. She chattered constantly, but Daniel could only pick up fragments of her speech. ‘The Watchers are in flight. The sand weighs heavily on the past. Listen to the sound of her feet.’

  Daniel knew better than to ask questions. Ishtahar was a dream vision; he must let her speak as she willed, and hopefully remember her words for later analysis.

  As they walked, Daniel sensed a change occurring, a shift in the dream reality. He realised that he was holding the hand of a child. When he looked down at her, he recognised Ishtahar’s face, but now she looked no more than seven or eight years old.

  Back in time, Daniel thought. Younger selves. Ours? Is that where the answer lies?

  The child chuckled and planted her feet firmly on the ground, so that Daniel had to stop walking. She tugged on his hand to make him squat down before her.

  ‘Gadreel,’ Daniel said to her, hoping to provoke some information.

  Ishtahar wrinkled up her nose. ‘Hidden in cloth,’ she said. ‘Angry yet proud.’

  ‘Gadreel is?’

  She nodded. ‘On a horse with tassels. Running hard, ahead of the smell of blood. Hot, cruel land. Don’t like it.’

  ‘Who else?’ Daniel asked gently. ‘Any more?’

  ‘He works with knives. Unhappy. He’s forgotten everything, because they made him forget.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Ishtahar pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘It’s the key to the Chambers of Light.’

  ‘Knives?’

  She giggled. ‘No! Th
e key’s waiting to be found. It was in the Cave of Treasures, but now it’s in the sky.’

  ‘Where, Ishtahar?’

  ‘In the place of beginning, where the Anannage held dominion.’

  ‘Here, then,’ Daniel said, his heart sinking. ‘Eden. What do we do with the key?’

  ‘Open.’ She giggled again. ‘He’s born for it. He will know.’ Then, she let go of his hands and went running away swiftly through the trees. Daniel watched her go, feeling the dream disintegrate in her wake, casting his consciousness back to a hotel room in London.

  In the morning, Daniel discovered that Shem had already instructed Salamiel to book flights to Istanbul. ‘We’ll fly into Turkey and take it from there,’ he told Daniel over breakfast. Salamiel was still in his bedroom, phoning Grigori agents in an attempt to find last minute seats. Daniel had no doubt Salamiel would be successful. Everything was developing as he’d feared.

  ‘Shouldn’t we think about this first?’ he suggested. ‘You know, discuss it?’

  ‘We can talk on the flight.’ Shem paused. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Dreams?’

  Daniel sighed. ‘I think you may be right about Gadreel, and also that there might be others. The only other information I picked up was that we have to find the key to the Chambers of Light. Does that mean anything to you?’

  Shem shrugged. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Apparently, it was in a place called the Cave of Treasures, but the information I received was a bit fragmented. Something about it being in the sky now. Doesn’t make much sense. I picked up that you should know about the key. You were born for it.’

  Shem leaned back in his chair to think, then spoke slowly. ‘I think we should make contact with Gadreel and then concentrate on locating this cave. You can work on it psychically while we’re in Turkey.’

  ‘What is the key for, though? What are these Chambers of Light that you have to open?’

  Shem stood up and began to pace around the table. ‘It could be a reference the Hall of Records, where the Anannage allegedly hid the store of their knowledge before withdrawing from the world.’ He stopped pacing. ‘I’m not sure. You work it out. All I want to do is get to Gadreel and find Eden.’

  Daniel was unnerved by the feverish gleam in Shem’s eyes. ‘It will be dangerous, though. We might be killed before we find him.’

  Shem shook his head in amusement. ‘Daniel, what has happened to you? Where’s your sense of wonder? What we began in Cornwall was only the small, first step. A trial run, if you like.’

  ‘There’s one thing you haven’t considered,’ Daniel said. ‘What about this self-styled King of Babylon. Doesn’t he believe he’s a descendent of the Anannage too? How will that affect us? Remember we will have to cross his lands to find Gadreel.’

  Shem nodded thoughtfully. ‘I have a feeling I will meet this man.’

  ‘Shem, he’s a dangerous mad-man! Is that wise?’

  Shem grinned. ‘Daniel, many people think I’m a dangerous mad-man too. I’m intrigued by King Nimnezzar. I want to find out if he’s authentic or not.’

  Daniel shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are you mad? Authentic? He’s a murdering dictator! Do you really think he has Grigori blood?’

  ‘Daniel, I’m surprised to hear you say that. The fact that he’s a murdering dictator makes it more likely he’s the genuine article! Remember Peverel Othman.’

  Daniel groaned. ‘This trip will be hell. I know it.’

  Chapter Five

  The Assassin

  London

  Melandra Maynard watched television as she carefully cleaned her selected weapon. She had many, and had been tutored in the use of sniper rifles, revolvers and automatics, but as she planned to get in close to Shemyaza, the equipment she had chosen for this task was a semiautomatic fitted with a suppressor. It was designed to be fired at close range, ideally with its muzzle actually touching the skin of her victim, so that any detonation not muffled by the suppressor would be absorbed by the soft tissue of the target.

  The windows of the hotel room were shut, but the air conditioning effectively cooled the air. She laid out the pieces of her weapon on the bed. Plastic: designed to be hidden in luggage and escape airport detection. It did not need cleaning, but this was a ritual she performed before every task.

  The news reports on TV were full of the troubles in the Middle East. Fundamentalists were running riot in Egypt. Only a fool or a potential suicide would want to visit the place as a tourist nowadays. Western holiday-makers were fair game, and subsequently non-existent, so the terrorists had turned their attention to the ancient monuments that attracted people from all over the world to their country. Several sites had been bombed, and there had been international outrage over the severe damage perpetrated on the Osirion at Abydos. Stones that had stood for millennia now lay in rubble. Even Melandra was disgusted by it. In thousands of years’ time, the creeds that approved of such vandalism might be forgotten, but the brooding monuments of the past would have continued on, perhaps until the day when no humans were left upon the earth, and the desert sands would blow over the last of their bones. Melandra shuddered. The thought was too disquieting.

  Shemyaza had been traced to a house in London. Melandra had received an encrypted e-mail message via her notebook computer, which had given her a script for the job to come. It appeared her target was booked into his hotel under the name Michael Jacobs. Melandra would pose as an employee of a company called Prussoe Estates, which she presumed was a Grigori outfit. She would arrive at the hotel under the pretence of delivering some documents to Jacobs, and intended to talk her way into his room. It sounded too easy, but she had prepared herself mentally for unexpected developments.

  Melandra wondered from where Fox got his information. Surely the Grigori would be aware of any human infiltration, and the only other explanation was that a Grigori themselves was leaking data to the Children. That seemed even more unlikely. Some things didn’t quite add up for Melandra, and it made her uneasy. Still, she trusted her instincts and had faith in her Lord. A silver cross hung at her throat; her protection. She would prepare herself with prayer before she left her room.

  Lighting a cigarette, Melandra went to the window, where she lifted aside the nets. Down on the street, traffic surged up and down. He was out there somewhere. Did he know about her? She shivered and dropped the net. Later that night, she would find him and kill him, or die in the attempt.

  Melandra walked through the city streets in the early evening. She felt tranquil, almost euphoric. The light was benign, the air balmy. Music filled the sky from the bars and cafes whose doors were thrown open to the summer night. She had effected a disguise, which she called her ‘secretary look.’ Curly, mid-brown, shoulder-length wig with blond streaks; high street store fashion clothes; make-up copied from the pages of a glossy women’s magazine. She wore unflattering, but apparently fashionable, spectacles and discreet gold jewellery.

  It took her half an hour to walk to her destination. For a while, she stood opposite the old building, smoking a cigarette in the arched doorway to a dusty dress shop, conveniently situated near a bus stop, so it would look as if she had left work for the evening and was waiting for her bus home.

  He must be in there. It did not look like a hotel; it did not look like anything particularly, except perhaps the offices of a registered charity, who set up camp wherever the generosity of patrons manifested itself.

  Melandra threw her cigarette end into the gutter and crossed the road. No traffic about. A group of young people ambled past her, their voices high with excitement. They did not appear to notice her. Why should they? She looked like a thousand other young women on the streets of London.

  She had her orders, her instructions, her methods, her bolt-hole ready. When the job was done she would disappear as quickly as a cat, and within a few hours be on her way back to the States.

  She mounted the three shallow steps that le
d to the closed front door. There was a peep-hole in one of the panels. She would be looked at through it. She rang the bell.

  All seemed silent and dead behind the door. She could not sense life. Was it empty? She pressed the bell again, and the intercom beneath it buzzed into life. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello, this is Nancy Oakes. I have some documents for one of your guests.’ Each statement sounded like a question. She exaggerated her own accent.

  There was silence for a moment. Then, ‘none of our guests are expecting visitors.’

  ‘Oh,’ Melandra answered. ‘Well, I believe my employers did call. I work for Prussoe Estates. I am expected.’ This was a crucial moment. If they checked with the man himself, he wouldn’t know what they were talking about, but someone, somewhere, had called this establishment earlier to provide back-up to her story. She shouldn’t have had trouble at this stage. ‘Will you check at the desk, please?’

  After a moment, the door opened a little. Melandra pushed it and walked inside. There was a tall woman waiting for her, an incredibly tall woman. Was this one of them? Her heart wanted to increase its pace, but she wouldn’t allow it. She mustn’t think about the implications; it was too awesome.

  ‘Hi!’ She smiled widely and held up a document wallet. ‘Hope there wasn’t a problem.’ She held out her hand for a friendly greeting, but the tall woman only looked at it in disgust. She extended a hand of her own, but not to shake Melandra’s.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better take those, Ms Oakes. Who is it they’re for?’

  ‘Michael Jacobs. I’m sorry, but my instructions are to hand them directly to Mr Jacobs.’

  The tall woman assessed her. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re too late. Mr Jacobs checked out a short while ago.’

  ‘What?’ She knew she’d let her voice and expression change too much.

  The tall woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps you’d better call your employers, Ms Oakes.’