by S. L. Duncan
“Did you ever speak about what we were doing here?”
“No. But I think he always knew.”
“That would make his constant presence something more sinister than coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I know it now. He was the one trying to get inside the vault. He killed the curator. That’s how he got in.”
His dad didn’t seem surprised by the news. “Then we were undone from the beginning. You can’t blame yourself. No more than you could blame Micah. The enemy uses deception to its advantage. It can play to your emotions or exploit weaknesses that you don’t even know you have. You didn’t believe. That’s understandable. What reasonable person could instantly accept such a belief on faith?”
“I believe. In Micah. In me. In what we are. I just wish it was happening to someone else.”
“It’s happening to all of us. If you believe, then faith will come. We have been blessed with a small victory in that regard.” His dad reached into his pocket and pulled out the note from the safe. “In the meantime, I need your help.”
“What is it?” Gabe asked.
“Final instructions from Carlyle. Though in his typical fashion, like he did with installing the vault, he’s taken an unfortunate precaution. It’s a riddle addressed to me. That old fatalistic bastard,” he said with a sad grin.
His dad placed the note on the table and turned it so Gabe could read it.
There was an address to a bank in London and an account number for a safety-deposit box. At the bottom of the note it simply read:
Joseph, to seek what is inside, you must go back to the day when the genesis of a love lost was a love gained.
“Since there was no key, I’m assuming that the safety-deposit box is accessed by a combination code. Obviously, Carlyle believed it could be derived by me through this riddle.”
Gabe read the note again. “It’s a date.”
“I guessed that, too. But what date could be so important that I should instantly know it?” If he was truly lost by its meaning, he didn’t show it. He seemed to be baiting Gabe for the answer.
“You know the answer, don’t you?” Gabe asked.
His father smiled, caught in his ruse. “I do. But I wanted you to see for yourself. Can you deduce the riddle’s meaning? We’ve spoken about it before, years back.”
A love lost . . . , Gabe read again, and then the memory came back as it had last night. He was hiding outside his father’s office years ago while he spoke on the phone. “Aseneth. She’s the love lost.”
“That’s correct. Carlyle and I knew her well from the Nicene Project in Turkey that involved the Vatican and the Essenes.”
“But what does a love gained mean?”
“Think. When did I leave Aseneth?” his dad said, his smile growing.
“After I was born.”
“My son, the detective. To be specific, I left her the day you were born to be by your side, the very day I received the call.”
Gabe never realized it all had happened so quickly. “So that makes the combination . . .”
“Your birthday. The most important day in my life. A date Carlyle was certain I’d never forget.” He put the note back into his jacket pocket.
Gabe felt his heart swell as his father beamed at him.
The train lurched forward beneath them. Soon they were back up to speed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
In a cab taken from King’s Cross Station, they arrived at a bank in the West End of London. Micah had not said a word the entire trip, but occasionally, Gabe stole a glance from her before she would again get lost in the passing scenery of the busy city.
As they came to a stop, Gabe felt as though he’d been dropped into every car fantasy he’d had since becoming old enough to drive. Cars worth more than he’d ever make in a lifetime lined the curbs of the street. A gleaming red one rumbled by and parked in a space by a marble-sided building, which had a white sign that read in black lettering, City of Westminster.
They exited the black cab, his father helping Micah with the nylon bag that contained the sword. “Neighborhood of the Royals,” he remarked, nodding to the sign as he led them to the entrance.
Inside, the foyer’s carved stone and tall ceiling lit by natural light gave the impression that the space might make a fine museum. His dad spoke to a woman at a concierge desk, and they waited until a young man arrived to greet them. He looked every part the banker, from his tortoiseshell glasses to his custom-fitting suit. “My name is George. You are one of the holders of the account?” He checked his papers and turned to Gabe’s father. “I’ll be assisting you with your business with us, Mr. Adam.” He turned, stiff, and said, “This way, please.”
His dad walked with George, and Gabe and Micah fell behind. As George led them through the winding corridors, he bragged about how the bank was used by many of the nearby museums to house various treasures in their high-security safety-deposit boxes. He stopped outside a large vault door. “I’m afraid only those named on the account may enter,” the banker said.
“Wait here. I’ll only be a moment,” his father said and followed George through the vault and into a long hallway of safety-deposit boxes that reached all the way up to the ten-foot ceiling.
The vault closed behind them, leaving Gabe alone with Micah.
“Let’s get this out of the way,” she said, her tone hard-edged. “In no way was Carlyle’s death your fault.” She seemed to struggle to find words. “Yuri fooled me as well.”
Gabe stared at the marble floor. “He played me. But had I not run—”
“If you had not run, the inevitable would have happened anyway. Only perhaps Yuri might have been more successful. When you left, you forced his hand. Think if he had taken us all by surprise. It could have been worse.” Micah leaned against the wall, unable to totally keep her emotion in check. She frowned and wiped away a tear as it slid over her cheek.
“You okay?” Gabe asked.
“No. I keep thinking that if I had let you tell your father about the attack in Durham, none of this would have happened. That is a mistake I’ll have to live with forever. I think, deep down, I was more like you than I wanted to admit. I never wanted this responsibility. More than anything I just wanted to be normal.”
“I still struggle with it. But we couldn’t have known. Telling them about the attack wouldn’t have revealed Yuri, either. So none of it matters, really. Carlyle and my father would have only insisted on us being more careful, but that wouldn’t have stopped what happened.”
“I want those bastards dead—whoever is with Yuri. Carlyle wasn’t my father, and to be honest, never wanted me to treat him like one, but he’s the only family I’ve ever really had. And now he’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Micah.” Gabe fought back tears of his own.
“You know, I also had a vision about the future,” she said and reached over to hold his hand. She squeezed gently, the surprise of the gesture nearly stopping his heart. “It was about you, Gabe. A demon killed you. And then it killed Carlyle and your father. I managed to get away, but the world still ended in ruin.” She drifted off again, anger flaring in her eyes, her hand slipping from his. “It was so real.”
Gabe wanted to comfort her, to hold her and tell her that she was beautiful and everything was going to be okay, but in truth, he wasn’t sure everything would be okay.
Before he could say anything more, the vault opened and his father exited with George, who held a black box with a number pad on top, much like a telephone.
“I’ll take you to a private viewing area,” he said and led them again through the bank. In an adjacent hall, he opened a door to a small room filled with a wooden table and leather chairs. George stood in the entrance and allowed them by. He then put the box on the table and turned to leave. “If you need assistance, please use the intercom on the wall.”
They walked in, leaving George in the hall to close the door behind them.
With quick precision, his
dad entered the numbers into the keypad and opened the box. Inside was an elongated object wrapped in a cloth adorned with embroidered crosses and symbols matching the marks of the archangels.
He removed the item from the box and unraveled the treasure. Their eyes grew wide, and Micah gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. He held a spear tip, its slotted end notched with grooves that would slide perfectly into the forked blade of the Gethsemane Sword.
“My God,” his father said. He quickly rewrapped the spear in the cloth and placed it inside the sword’s container. “It’s time to go. Ethiopia is waiting.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The longer he watched from across the London street, the more Septis realized this short, bald man—this pathetic waste—concealed no threat. Nor was it Enoch, and yet some of Enoch’s aura had been imprinted on the human, like a fingerprint left at the scene of a crime. Of its origin, Septis felt certain. Never would he forget that scent.
But the power had faded and abandoned this shell. He could smell Enoch in everything surrounding the human, covering it like musk, yet his true essence was elsewhere. Hidden, perhaps, by the fools of the creator’s legion. The conundrum left Septis confused. Confusion made him angry.
The man walked through the neighborhood and entered a building off the sidewalk.
Had this been a trick? Was he being mocked? Had he been baited to England, lured away from his search for Joseph Adam and his son by the showing of Enoch’s power in order to distract from the boy’s movements?
The mistake in New York continued to haunt him. Mastema’s patience would not last much longer. Yet Septis could feel it all over the human—the remnant of power. He decided to proceed with caution and caught his reflection in a passing window.
Appearances, after all, can be deceiving.
Septis flicked his cigarette to the ground and moved toward the flat. He placed his hand on the door, shadows slipping from his fingers to unlock it. He entered, silent, undetected. Shadows reached from darkened corners and found their master, concealing him from sight.
Inside, the human put on a kettle while some mindless daytime game show played in the background on the television set. Leaving the kettle to boil, the insect returned to the couch and watched the program, hypnotized by the sounds and images.
Sickened, Septis could hardly stand to be in its presence. How could such a meek and worthless species inherit the Earth? Blind is the ignorance of God. His likeness indeed.
The human started to laugh at something, but suddenly couldn’t find the ability to continue. It gasped and choked, struggling for breath.
Septis had grabbed the throat. Lifting the human from the couch, he held it off the floor. Eyes bulged in shock, yet to register the attack. Septis pulled it closer and inhaled.
Fear.
The human flailed about, dangling from the arm, attempting to scream. The gravity of the situation set in, and the thing calmed to a terrified stillness, awaiting its doom. Septis positioned thumb over the jugular vein to feel the pulse. Blood pumped through its veins.
He wondered if the human might die from shock before ever providing any entertainment or information. The pulse settled to a steady, measurable rhythm. “I will ask you questions,” he said. “If you lie, I will know, and you will be dead. I swear it. Where is Gabriel Adam?” Septis loosened his hold to allow it to speak.
“Who? I don’t know him! You’ve got the wrong house,” the man struggled to say.
Septis felt no change in the heartbeat. Truth, he thought. “Where is Enoch?”
“Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong . . . gah!”
Septis squeezed, ending its protest. This maggot tells the truth again, yet Enoch’s stench covers the thing like a perfume.
The man tried to say something else, but it only frustrated Septis, so he crushed the neck, snapping the spine. Eyes went vacant as the body fell limp. A last breath hissed out of the gaping mouth.
Septis let go, and the body dropped to the floor in a heap.
He thought for a second, trying to restrain his rage. The trail is cold again. As the berserker inside begged for release, his concentration wavered. I am undone by my own failure.
The kettle whistled loudly.
The flame. An idea occurred to him. Answers can be had by means other than asking. He looked down at the lifeless form and took off his overcoat, laying it on the back of a chair.
He found a soup cauldron and lit the stove. Then he poured in some of the boiling water from the kettle.
Like a dog gnawing at an infected paw, Septis bit his finger and held it over the boiling water, allowing several drops of blood to fall into it. He then rolled up his sleeves, revealing ceremonial scars cut into his skin.
He dragged the body near the stove. As he kneeled over the head, a grotesque, crunching noise followed the sound of blood spilling onto the linoleum floor.
With red-soaked hands, Septis placed two eyeballs into the cauldron. He bent down again and went back to work on the corpse. Sounds of ripping, popping. In his hand, a tongue, dripping and mangled.
He placed it into the boiling cauldron and stirred the liquid with his bare fingers.
The broth bubbled into a thick crimson froth. He placed his palms over the substance and began to chant.
Shadows grew from every corner of the wall—from every crack in its surface. They flowed like oil into the cauldron as he spoke, enslaved by his will. The liquid sloshed and boiled over, sizzling in the flame of the stove. He finished the incantation and opened his eyes.
It was done.
He drank the potion right out of the cauldron.
Vertigo struck him instantly. He stumbled on the body and fell into the corner, spitting and writhing in pain. The kitchen hutch toppled, sending plates and cups shattering onto the floor.
Septis put his hands in front of his face as if something had appeared there. His eyes turned to deep, black pools.
Muscle memory from the tongue moved his mouth. Visions seen by another’s eyes appeared in his mind. Words stammered back through time, as if rewinding the human’s life, until Septis felt a moment different from the rest, draped in a familiar energy. He drew toward the memory, focusing his mind to slow, and relived the man’s experience.
Mumbling at first, he spoke, the voice alien to his own. “. . . Entheos Genesthai. Use it sparingly . . . The potion is very powerful and will open up time and the realm of creation . . . Only the Watchers may consume it . . . Solomon . . . the ark . . . the ring . . . Zion . . . Axum . . .” The vision climaxed and Septis roared, the sound shuddering through the house like an earthquake.
Windows inside the house burst, sending broken glass onto the street.
Septis felt consumed by the excitement of the revelations. Enoch possessed the human in order to counsel Fortitudo Dei. His eyes opened wide as new life and resolve invigorated his scarred form. In his mind, the remnant of what was the bald human dwindled into oblivion. Once more, his thoughts were his own.
“Ethiopia,” he whispered in his own voice. A smile crept across his face. “Axum,” he said louder. “The ark is in Ethiopia.”
Septis stood and walked with a renewed purpose toward the front door. He lit a cigarette as he left. Flames the color of its ember ignited inside the building.
The trail is fresh again.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The window to the hotel room looked east into the desert sky and allowed the Egyptian sunrise to spill its rays through the lace curtains, turning Gabe’s makeshift bed on the floor into an oven. Combined with the incessant car horns that beeped through the night and the thin rug, which offered little comfort on the hardwood floor, Gabe had accumulated a grand total of no sleep whatsoever.
Under the covers, sweat trickled down his back. He wished he’d joined Micah last night on the king-sized bed. The thought had crossed his mind. Several times.
He kicked off the damp comforter and sat up.
She slept, benefiting from another sedative. His father snored on the couch. Gabe regretted not taking one of the sleeping pills his dad offered before the last flight.
He felt worse than tired. It was a bone-deep kind of exhaustion that had drilled into his waking thoughts. His chest and side still ached from Yuri’s kick, which last night had made it impossible to find a comfortable position on the plane.
He stood and stretched the soreness out of his back and then pushed aside the lace curtains and sliding door. On his way to the balcony, he grabbed the sword case propped up against the wall near Micah’s bed.
The sky was awash in light. At first glance, Cairo was a sprawling orange mess, like a giant puzzle waiting to be solved around the Nile River. After a moment, the beauty of the city began to unfold, and he recalled the first time he visited New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Monet’s dots of paint, much like the clutter, buildings, and streets of Cairo, somehow came together to become more brilliant than their individual parts.
Across the river, tall buildings lined up against the bank. Their piers were filled with boats of all kinds and extended into the blue waters. Trees lined a riverside walk below. Various ferries docked against its landing, ready for tourists and sightseers who walked by.
Beyond the busy district, lush grass and foliage extended from the riverbanks, the Nile a stripe of green that faded along with the rest of the city into distant orange sands of the desert rising on a hill in the horizon.
Gabe couldn’t help but smile.
The hotel faced upstream on the point of an island situated in the middle of the river, with its waters flowing north to the Mediterranean Sea. Gabe leaned against the railing and watched the nautical traffic. Industrial ocean liners, haulers, ferries, small cruise ships, and boats with hoisted sails went about their daily routines, oblivious to this changing world that now felt bigger than it ever had before.
