by S. L. Duncan
Nothing does anymore, he thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
BBC One blared from the clock radio accompanied by an electronic alarm that beeped like the warning signal of a reversing truck. Gabe woke and thought he was about to be run over. Correction—he felt like he had been run over. He squinted to a rush of daylight. It hurt, like a migraine twisting to life.
In the glare, he caught a glimpse of the red numbers on the clock’s digital face. He was already late for Carlyle’s study at the vault.
Noon, he thought. So much for breakfast.
With one slap, the alarm quieted.
Muscles ached from head to toe. A film that tasted like chalk covered his tongue. He wanted—no, he needed—water. By the gallon, if possible.
A stab of pain shot through his hand as he sat up in bed. There he discovered a mosaic of purples, greens, and reds surrounding two knuckles.
Memories from last night trickled through the alcohol-soaked synapses of his brain.
She kissed me, he recalled. The notion kept repeating itself as if it might become easier to believe, but it happened—he was there. For the most part at least.
He moved and felt another shock of pain. His knee throbbed when it bent, and then the rest of the night came back. The intruder. Micah lying on the ground. The strange patch of missing snow.
Carlyle and his father needed to know about the attack, but Micah would never forgive him if he went back on his word. Gabe decided to keep it to himself for now. He’d work on her later and hopefully change her mind about keeping it secret.
In the meantime, he needed to see about the break-in.
Gabe entered the vault, now cleaned and straightened from the intrusion with the exception of a dented lamp shade and the broken mirror. Even the blast mark had been scrubbed from the fresh dent in the vault’s door. Micah sat at the desk, turned away from the entrance, with her nose in a book and her face hidden by a curtain of hair. She didn’t look up when he walked in. Gabe tried coughing a little to get her attention, but she kept reading.
Trouble, he thought.
Carlyle and Gabe’s father looked caught in one of their intellectual sparring matches, their discussion a series of animated whispers and hand gestures. Probably something to do with the security at the vault.
Gabe ignored them and sat down beside Micah. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t look up.
He let his book bag fall to the floor in a heap, hoping to get her attention.
“We’ll be with you both in a moment,” his dad said with a dismissive gesture.
“One second,” Micah said rather loudly, without a glance.
Gabe’s heart sank. He recalled the kiss at the playground. “Look, I know what you’re thinking—last night was a mistake. We drank too much,” he whispered.
She kept reading, lost in the book.
“It’s fine. I won’t let it get weird,” he continued. “But what happened last night, the other thing . . . we need to tell them about the—”
“There,” Micah yelled and closed the book. She pulled her hair away from her ear and removed two earbuds connected to a small music player hidden in her pocket. Its black cords were invisible in her hair. “Sorry. Was I shouting?” She leaned over and kissed Gabe. “How are you feeling? My head’s killing me.”
Gabe’s mouth hung open, and he noticed a silence had filled the room. The hushed debate had stopped. He turned to Carlyle and his father. They looked frozen, eyes wide as if someone had punched them both in the gut.
“What was that?” his dad asked. “Did I just see you two kiss?”
“Did you kiss him, Micah?” Carlyle asked.
“Yeah. So, what’s on the agenda for today?” she asked.
“What’s on the . . . ?” Carlyle fumbled through his documents and books, none of which, Gabe suspected, were written on the complexities of raising a teenage daughter. “You two can’t bloody kiss. You’re Watchers!”
“I don’t care if I’m the Pope. I can kiss whomever I please. Including Gabe, unless he should prefer I didn’t.”
“I’m just here to learn,” Gabe said.
Micah cleared her throat and cocked an eyebrow.
“But the kiss is good, too.”
She winked and nodded, as if to say, Damn right it is.
“You weren’t meant to be together,” his father said. “I mean, you’re meant to be together, of course. But not together.” He made a horrible colliding motion with his hands that nearly caused Gabe to dissolve from embarrassment.
Micah rolled her eyes and began fixing a nail. “Calm down. It’s just a kiss. It’s not like we’ve had sex.”
“Oh, my God.” Gabe put his face in his hands.
Carlyle and his dad nearly choked on their tongues as a frenzy of arguments spun around the small room. Gabe couldn’t understand a word from any of them as the bickering rambled on.
“Right, then!” Carlyle slammed his hand on a book like a gavel, bringing the room to order. “For the meantime, you two are not to see each other outside the context of what we’re doing and learning here. Is that clear? There is too much at stake for the both of you to be anything less than totally focused on our cause.”
“Whatever.” Micah’s tone said something else entirely.
“Yes, sir,” Gabe responded.
For an awkward moment nobody looked at each other.
“As you both know, there was another attempted breach last night on the vault,” Carlyle began. “All the security cameras had been disabled, and the police have discovered that whoever entered the gallery had access. A key, it seems.”
Gabe remained quiet, staring at his feet.
Micah put on a show of feigned ignorance. “Is the curator going to shut us down?”
“No,” his father said. “There will be no internal investigation by the board or the gallery. Mortan Balor has gone missing.”
“That man had access to the Norman Gallery,” Carlyle said. “I’ve spoken with the Vatican. They’re investigating his background. It’s possible he may have been compromised.”
His dad sighed. “We’ve also come to the conclusion that your need for acceleration is justified.”
Gabe remembered Micah’s warning about Thecla.
His father continued, “Whoever is conspiring against us clearly has the upper hand. We can no longer afford to treat time as a luxury.”
“The accelerant,” Carlyle said, “is a ritual device used in ancient ceremonies where the devout would attempt to commune with God.”
“Entheos Genesthai,” Micah said. “We know all about it. And what it can do.”
If Carlyle was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Good. Then you must now understand how dire our circumstance is to resort to such extreme measures. I’ve made the request to the Vatican, and we should have possession of the substance shortly. Since we are now pressed, I believe it is time to share all I know about what secrets the vault holds.”
“Before you begin,” his dad said, “I’d like a word with Gabe in private.”
“Agreed. Perhaps Micah and I have some things to discuss as well.”
Upstairs, Gabe followed his father through the glass exhibits of the gallery to the entrance to the Norman Chapel at the end of the hall.
The small ancient room was the pride of the castle’s exhibits, and inside, they would have privacy from the foot traffic of the hall. Soft candlelight bathed the vaulting pillars and low-hanging stonework ceiling of the eleventh-century Saxon architecture, giving the prayer room a solemn atmosphere appropriate for what Gabe knew was coming.
His dad walked across the herringbone floors to the altar table at the end of the room, his footsteps echoing around the tightly enclosed space. He looked conflicted and unsure of what he wanted to say. He hesitated as if choosing his words carefully, his hands folded in front of him.
“Nothing makes me happier than to see you happy, Gabriel. Especially in light of what you’ve been through. I�
�m glad you and Micah are getting along so well. Truly, I am. You both have a common empathy that draws you together. I understand that, but you must know that whatever your feelings are right now, you were not meant to be with Micah.”
“First of all, I don’t know if we are together,” Gabe said. “We’re just getting to know each other, so you and Carlyle can stop acting like I’ve put a ring on her finger.”
“She kissed you. That’s hardly nothing.”
“It was only a kiss, okay?”
“Regardless of your casual feelings toward this behavior, it is the beginning of what will certainly become complicated in the future. There is something you need to know about Micah.”
“What, that she’s the archangel Michael?”
“Obviously, but she is also the Michaelion to whom Constantine attributed his victory over Licinius—the turning point of the Roman civil war that established Christianity,” his dad said. “Micah is believed to possess powers great enough to favor an army. Obtaining control of the Michaelion will be central to our enemy’s plan. She may be one of the greatest weapons in this war.”
“A weapon?”
“Yes. You all are. This war won’t be fought on a supernatural plane. Unless we stop the End of Days, there will be nations and armies involved. Guns and soldiers. Different factions playing against each other. And now, because the archangels are human, and humans are corruptible, you’ve each become the greatest advantage to achieving victory.”
“And this has what to do with a kiss?”
“Everything and nothing. It is a distraction. You both need to focus on the reality of who you are. More importantly, you don’t need to get attached to her. Her path will likely be different than yours. Should we be unable to keep the spark of Armageddon from lighting and this war from spilling over into the nations, she will be called to lead the armies.”
Gabe laughed. “Micah leading an army? An army of what? Fashion designers?”
“This is serious. The archangel Michael presided over the nations of man. Also, as a practical matter, she is the archangel Michael. Once you partake in the ritual of the Entheos Genesthai, we expect you both to begin to recall who you were as archangels. You can see where there might be some . . . complications there.”
“That’s a bit narrow-minded, Dad.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean? Like we’ll recall our former selves?”
“We believe so, yes.”
“So we’ll become somebody else?”
“In a sense. But no more than we all grow and become more than who we were. You will always be Gabriel Adam. You are who you are. What you’ll recall won’t affect your personality to any great extent but rather your knowledge on how to fulfill your roles. At least that is what we think.” His father failed to hide the uncertainty in his voice, and he looked at the altar.
“But you don’t know, do you?”
“You are a smart, strong young man. And Micah is a smart, strong young woman. I have no doubt that when this is over, you’ll both continue to be yourselves and hopefully free to pursue whatever you wish in life. For now, you and Micah need to concentrate on the tasks at hand and not each other.”
He took a step toward his son, his demeanor even more severe. He leaned in and whispered, “Archangels are not immune to the lure of the enemy. They have fallen before. The darkness is listening for you. It can hear your presence in this world. And though it cannot see you, its focus is certain. Its plan in motion. Make no mistake—any departure from your path will invite temptation. Any opportunity you give, it will seize. Take care of who you are and who you are to become, because that, ultimately, is the prize for which our war is fought.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Gabe entered the vault room with his father to catch Carlyle and Micah in mid-embrace. They parted, and the Scotsman wiped a tear from her cheek before returning to his desk. He seemed softer somehow.
Makeup ran on Micah’s face, and she tossed her hair as if it might help her gain some composure.
Carlyle pointed to the chair next to her. “Please have a seat, Gabe.” The large man seemed to have trouble finding his thoughts. “The enemy, as you know, has moved faster than we anticipated. How they’ve managed to enter our world without our knowledge remains a mystery. Whatever they’ve done to breach the seal, if indeed it has been breached, is beyond our knowledge. It’s possible that the supernatural connection that remained allowed for a doorway to open under extreme circumstances, but what’s done is done. Our last order of business before you undertake the Entheos Genesthai ritual is to introduce you to our only weapon—the Gethsemane Sword.” Carlyle excused himself to the vault.
Micah sat in silence. Gabe wanted to reach out to her and comfort her, but she stayed hidden behind the curtain of black hair hiding her face.
When Carlyle returned, he carried a long rectangular case wrapped in what looked like a burial shroud. The ornate material, with embroidered roses and crowns, draped over the case like a tablecloth. It was paper-thin and fluttered in the air as he walked.
He put the case on the desk and removed the cloth, then folded it and set it gently to the side. The wood lid had but one latch, which he unhinged and opened.
Micah and Gabe looked inside to see a flash of metal and a red handle wrapped in gold embroidery.
“This is the Gethsemane Sword, a Roman short sword that cut Jesus during his capture at the Gethsemane Garden. It is said that to the shock of the soldier that wounded him, Jesus then blessed the sword and tended to the wounds of the Romans wounded by his disciples.” Carlyle removed the sword from the box and held it out for closer inspection.
The weapon captivated Gabe. Its blade forked at the end like the tongue of a snake, forming a double-tipped point in the steel. Grooved slots lined the inside of the V shape, allowing for something to slide into place. Symbols had been etched up the metal in a vertical line, one after the other, from tip to hilt. They looked like hieroglyphs he’d seen in documentaries about the pyramids in Egypt, only cruder.
“Is it broken?” Micah asked.
“No. Incomplete. When Rome crucified Jesus, they speared him to hasten death. That spear tip makes up the other half of the weapon. Eventually, the sword was given to the governor of Judea, the Roman Prefect Pontius Pilate, who took the two pieces and fashioned a trophy sword as a gift for Emperor Tiberius Caesar Augustus and as a boast of Pilate’s success in quashing the discontent of Judea.”
“So then, why do you have it here?” Gabe asked.
“Because as the sword tumbled through the ages, from frontier to frontier and from general to general, it was used as a symbol of Rome’s might to be held by its army’s most successful leaders until it landed here in northern Britain, the last battleground of the empire’s expansion. It is a relic of Rome’s unfinished business, much like Hadrian’s Wall.” Carlyle paused and presented the blade. “Incidentally, the spear tip was made of iron stone. Thus became the stone in the sword. Later translations would inverse the words, giving us the sword in the stone, from which an entirely separate legend grew. What I have in my hands is the true sword Excalibur, the legendary weapon used in the defense of the invading tribal hordes of what is today Scotland. The sword has remained here ever since.”
“This is King Arthur’s sword?” Micah asked.
Gabe stared, slack jawed, and then caught Micah’s glance. She lingered for just an instant and then looked away.
“Yes,” Carlyle said. “Though the legend is only inspired by fact. The Roman Army knew him as Lucius Artorius Castus, the last general to earn the trophy. This sword was actually of far greater value than the Romans ever could have guessed. According to the Apocalypse of Solomon, an object that has been blessed by an anointed being can be used to evoke the power of God if done by one who is ordained to wield that power. Ordained in such a manner as say, an archangel.”
“So where is the stone?” Gabe asked.
“S
afe and secreted from the blade until needed,” Carlyle said. “They are kept separate should one fall into the wrong hands. It is only by the grace of God that we possess these pieces now or that they weren’t lost to history. There will be a time when you awaken the sword to the power you possess and harness its use for our cause. Which one of you will do it, and when that is, remains to be seen.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Nearly a week had passed since Gabe last saw Micah at the vault. With Carlyle giving up his daily lectures in favor of study and preparation for the Entheos Genesthai, Gabe found himself more alone than usual, especially for a Friday. Mostly, he’d used the extra free time to catch up on his suffering schoolwork, though the distraction of mind-altering drugs and the feeling of abandonment from Micah left him less than inspired.
When his last class of the afternoon ended, the professor pulled him aside before he could escape. She was kindhearted but demanding and easily his hardest teacher. Luckily, the class, Christianity in Context, was one of his best. Still, he knew what was coming from the look of disappointment on her face. After his last paper, a pathetic analysis of the effect of the Jewish Temple’s destruction on the writing of the New Testament Gospels, it was only a matter of time before she said something about his steadily slipping grades.
“Big plans this weekend?” Ms. Bernstein asked.
“No, ma’am. Not any more than usual at least. Catching up on my work more or less,” Gabe said.
“That’s why I stopped you.” She produced his paper, the first page riddled with red marks. “I have to say, there has been a distinct shift in the quality of your work. Factually, it is accurate. Probably more accurate than the rest of the class. Your grasp of the subject matter is not in doubt. But your writing—it’s rushed. As if you don’t care.”
“I do care, Professor.”
“Which is why I’m offering you an extension on this paper, an opportunity to put your best foot forward. You have wonderful potential, dear boy, which not so long ago you wielded almost effortlessly. I’d like to see more.”
