The Salvation of Gabriel Adam (The Revelation Saga)

by S. L. Duncan

  “He said, ‘Last chance to turn back.’”

  “Will he take us into Istanbul?” Micah shouted.

  “No,” Afarôt said, joining them on the front of the bow. “Only to the nearest dock. He wants to get in and out as quickly as possible. He says he has friends across the way and has not heard from them since the first earthquake. Since the fog rolled in.”

  The boat passed into the curtain of fog. It flowed onto the boat like water, reminding Gabe of the undulating portal of the Ark of the Covenant in Axum. He felt a tickle as it passed over his skin. The engine sputtered for a brief moment. Micah sat across from him, barely visible only feet away. The fisherman and the steering console had disappeared completely.

  “Gabe?” Micah said.

  He reached for her arm and grabbed her outstretched hand, pulling her to his side of the boat, which rocked from the shift in weight. The engine slowed to an idle, and the sound of the wake died as it washed up to the front of the boat.

  No longer steadied by its forward movement, the boat gently swayed in the water.

  “What’s happening?” Gabe asked.

  The engine sputtered again and died.

  Afarôt called out for the fisherman, but the only sound was that of the Marmara lapping against the hull.

  “Hey, mister,” Gabe yelled.

  In the fog, he heard the unmistakable collapse of a body onto the deck.

  Afarôt made a move toward the wheel, but Micah held him back by the arm. He looked at her, and she shook her head. “Something’s not right.”

  Suddenly, the fishing boat felt extremely small, the fog like prison walls. Gabe felt the boat shift as Afarôt moved, and he realized how little it would take to sink it.

  In the fog, more noise from the stern—a scuffling sound of quick movements and soft thumps against the floor, like a body might make during a seizure. Gabe looked at Afarôt. His eyes were hard and focused, staring into the gray.

  A moan, agitated and hoarse, came from the deck near the wheel.

  “The Sixth Vial,” Afarôt began, his voice measured and methodic, “lets loose upon the realm unclean spirits that have been imprisoned by the light of this world.”

  “Six?” Gabe asked. “That means only one is left. I thought you said it would take days.”

  “I said it might take days,” Afarôt said.

  Micah and Gabe took a step back, the space left on the bow dwindling.

  “What are they?” Micah asked. “Possessed like those things at the docks?”

  “No,” Afarôt said. “This is the turning. An abandonment of humanity. Those that remain shall evolve and become demon. As the light diminishes and the darkness grows, so too will they rise, thus furnishing Mastema with an army.”

  “What does that mean for the city? For Istanbul?” Gabe whispered. He was intensely afraid of what was hidden in the fog. His hand trembled, his breathing quickening. His heart pounded as though it had been hit by one of those electric medical paddles.

  The ringing in his ears got louder.

  Something inside the fog hissed.

  Gabe heard three footsteps, and the fisherman appeared from the fog with a roar, his eyes glowing red. He’d changed, as Septis had before being bound by the ring, into something animal. Skin had torn to make way for enlarged muscle. Hands had become claws, and large ridges rippled down the man’s back. In his blistered hand, he held a fishing gaff above his head, its razor-sharp hook falling toward Micah.

  A blue-white energy erupted from Afarôt, and the fisherman was thrown into the wheel console, crushing the windshield and control panel. The blast did not destroy him, though, as it had the possessed at the dock. The beast roared again and stood from the twisted metal, his remaining skin covered in sores, and flung himself again at Micah.

  Something inside of Gabe took hold of him, and he raised his arm. A blast erupted from his hand so powerful it stole the sound from the air. The ring had become a vortex, its gravity pulling light and fog toward it.

  The fisherman froze in midair, the hooked rod falling from his hands, his body caving in on itself until he was a mere focal point of dark energy. The air calmed, and the undulating, glowing black orb that had been the man drifted toward Gabe’s hand and peacefully disappeared into the jewel of the ring.

  Gabe fell back against the railing and nearly went over into the water. A spatter of blood fell from his mouth as he slipped toward the black sea. Afarôt caught him and dragged him back onto the nets.

  “Are you okay?” Afarôt asked. His breath caught as he saw the blood. “Gabriel . . .”

  Micah gasped.

  “I’m fine,” Gabe said, too out of breath to say more. With a spit and a wipe of his mouth on his sleeve, he leaned back against the side of the boat to rest. His insides felt as though they were rotting. The dark energies were settling into the ring, causing a feverish flush in his skin. He shivered, the cold of the darkness wrapping itself around his bones.

  “Gabriel,” Afarôt said, his hands beginning to glow. He didn’t seem to know how to say anything else.

  “I know,” Gabe said. “Let’s just hurry, okay? My dad may not have long.”

  “This will not make it right, but it may help temporarily,” Afarôt said and put his hands on Gabe.

  Warmth made its way into his body, pushing the chill of decay to the edges of his being. The ring felt even colder on his hand, as if it wanted to reject Afarôt’s healing power.

  “Are you okay, Micah?” Afarôt asked, turning to her.

  Her hand, which had been covering her mouth, fell. She nodded. “We’ve got other problems.” The center console was now visible as the fog began to spill back from the boat. Everything was shattered. The wheel lay on the deck.

  “We’ll make do,” Afarôt said, helping Gabe to his feet.

  “It went for her,” Gabe whispered. “Twice. Moving past me to do so.”

  Afarôt looked at Micah as she sifted through what was left of the steering mechanism. “I noticed.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Micah dipped the oar back into the water and paddled. On the other side of the fishing boat, Afarôt did the same. Gabe sat on the deck, leaning on the wreckage of the center console in the middle of the boat, and looked at the compass, checking their bearing. His body shook, exhausted, affected by the essence of the demon that was now surging through the ring.

  “A little to the right,” Micah said, and Afarôt gave an extra push at the water.

  The boat felt like it lurched forward, but with the uniformity of the surrounding fog, Gabe found it difficult to tell.

  Beside Gabe, pieces of the steering console rattled with the sway of the boat. The turning piston had been crushed, as had the drive mechanism. The wheel itself had bent, looking something like a taco shell. Micah and Afarôt dipped their oars back into the water and pulled the boat forward, though it only felt like inches.

  It all seemed impossible. He knew he was in no condition to do anything to help his father. All he was really doing was endangering his friends.

  A need for oxygen struck him. Gabe took a breath—a deep one—and leaned against the side of the hull. Weakness filled his legs and muscles for a moment and then passed. Tears welled in his eyes.

  “Gabe?” Micah asked, taking her oar from the water.

  Gabe ducked to wipe his tears without her seeing. “It’s nothing.”

  He felt Afarôt’s hand on his back, and a recharging warmth flooded his body.

  “Thanks,” Gabe said.

  Micah and Afarôt continued to paddle for another half an hour to the rhythmic sound of water rushing over the oars, until Micah stood from the side of the hull. “Look,” she whispered.

  The fog was thinning around them, the small boat emerging from its shroud. Once through, the separation between the dense wall of fog and the rest of the misty Marmara reminded Gabe of oil on water, only vertical. The fog bent gently at the top, its curvature arching above a light mist on the surface of the
water to connect cloud to sea, and disappeared on the horizon.

  “It’s a dome,” Micah said.

  Gabe couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow trapped by the fog. Something inside him changed. It was subtle, like after drinking coffee in the morning. He felt like he was waking up, the weariness leaving his body.

  “The air,” Micah said. “It’s colder. Like the atmosphere is different.”

  For the first time, the hilly skyline of Istanbul was visible in the distance. Closer to them, a city loomed in the gray light.

  “Where are we?” Gabe asked. He stood, gently, letting his legs get used to supporting his weight. The echo of the new demon had quieted, as had the ringing in his ears.

  In the distance, minarets towered above most of the densely packed buildings that seemed ready to slip into water. To the west, large commercial docks reached out into the water.

  “Gebze,” Micah said. “That is my best guess. That is what the map said, right?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is still a substantial distance from our destination,” Afarôt said. He kneeled back down and paddled toward the shore.

  “Like, maybe an hour’s drive? Two?” Micah kneeled to join the paddling.

  “We shall see,” Afarôt said.

  Gabe tapped Micah’s shoulder and took the oar from her. “My turn.”

  “You sure?” She looked surprised, but also completely okay with him taking a turn. She leaned against the broken console and held out her hands. “Ah. The captain’s chair. I much prefer giving the orders. Stroke, gentlemen.”

  He smiled at her and paddled in rhythm with Afarôt, moving the boat toward the distant docks until he realized Afarôt had stopped. “Keep paddling. Or we’ll go in circles,” Gabe said.

  But Afarôt wasn’t listening. He stood from the side of the boat, the oar still in his hands. His stare settled on the horizon in the west, and he seemed to be feeling the wind. “The sea.”

  “What of it?” Micah asked.

  “There are no ships. When last I was here, the water was a floating city of vessels.”

  Gabe looked at the calm, glassy surface of the Marmara, shimmering under the fine layer of mist. He moved his paddle, and the current it created stirred an object to the surface in its wake. It was pale, like a cloud in the dark water.

  Another drifted by. “What is that? Floating there . . .”

  A dying fish drifted to the surface, its body belly-up and its fins making faint ripples. It disappeared again into the black.

  Looking deeper, he saw several of them drifting like ghosts.

  Micah groaned in disgust as Afarôt pushed another object away with his oar, this one bigger.

  “Oh, my God,” she said.

  A body floated facedown in the water. It looked rotted, the white of ribs glistening in its bloated back.

  “Effects of the Third Vial. The seas are dying,” Afarôt said. He looked toward Gebze. “There is no activity on the shore, either. The fisherman—his skin was full of sores and blisters. Like it was decaying.”

  “He was fine before we entered the fog,” Micah said.

  “The Fifth Vial,” Afarôt said. “Just like those at the dock. They are tainted.”

  “Should we turn back?” Micah asked. The suggestion seemed to come not from a place of fear. Instead, she looked resolved, focused. As if another strategy was worth considering.

  “We’re not turning back,” Gabe said.

  “We’ll be no good to him or anyone, if what happened to that fisherman happens to us. I felt something when we first went into the fog.”

  “I felt it too,” Gabe said. The notion of turning around suddenly didn’t seem so objectionable.

  “We are spared from the horrors of the vials,” Afarôt said. “And only the mortals who bear the mark made by the First Vial shall suffer.”

  “I didn’t see any marks,” Micah said.

  “It is darkness within. They are not marked like you and me,” he said, patting the mark on the back of his head.

  “Last I checked, we were freaking mortal, Afarôt,” Gabe said.

  “But you are also more.”

  “Good,” Micah said. “I don’t fancy the plague.”

  “The fisherman was turning into something. He was starting to look like the Druj,” Gabe said. “You said that was the Sixth Vial.”

  “Yes. The convergence has already begun. Once perfected with the final, Seventh Vial, the realms will collide. With the seal broken, nothing will exist to hold back the deluge of darkness and the world will be changed forever,” Afarôt looked toward the west.

  “Then we need to get to the Hagia Sophia as bloody quickly as possible. If we can prevent the Hellgate from opening, we may be able to prevent Mastema’s return.”

  “And if we can’t?” Gabe asked.

  “Then, my dear boy,” Afarôt said, “the Michaelion will champion our armies in the greatest war the realm has ever seen.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The current helped Gabe and Afarôt paddle the small boat to within a few hundred yards of the shore. Docks and abandoned boats lined the land in the hundreds, some boats drifting or run aground. Some listing and taking on water. Gabe didn’t bother to tie the fisherman’s boat to the dock. Instead, they departed and set the boat adrift. Its hull scraped against a sunken sailboat as it moved out to sea.

  Yachts and larger vessels were secured to the docks. Gabe had seen ships that big before in pictures and on television. These were different, their hulls without the gleam he’d expected from something so expensive. Instead, they looked weathered, decrepit.

  Rust gathered around the metal ties. Salt had crept up the sides of the hulls, discoloring them. Some boats were barely floating, their portholes visible just above the waterline.

  “Looks like a hurricane came through,” Micah said.

  Afarôt looked to the wall of fog in the distance. “We are inside the perimeter. What you are seeing is the vials’ influence on this realm. Rot and decay. That is the lifeblood of Mastema’s world. It is his folly to believe he can have what he once knew in his paradise. Even if he should succeed in uniting the realms, what he ultimately seeks is lost to him forever. That is the tragedy of Mastema.”

  Gabe thought back to his time in New York, to what he could never go back to, and felt a twinge of empathy for Mastema.

  “I think it’s abandoned,” Micah said, looking at the seaside street and the buildings that lined it while adjusting the sword on her back. “Where is everybody?”

  “Gone,” Afarôt said. “Or taken by the mark.”

  “Like the fisherman?” Gabe asked.

  Afarôt nodded. “We should be cautious. The turned are crafty and dangerous creatures. They prefer shadow to light and feed off its power, so we would do well to avoid the dark, for they are as strong as any lesser demon. They exist to destroy, to kill.”

  In his mind’s eye, Gabe saw his father, injured on the steps of the Axum church. “Then we need to hurry,” he said. “Which way?”

  Afarôt looked west. “It is difficult to say how far, but the seaside road should take us to the Bosporus. The Hagia Sophia sits just across the water on the European side of Istanbul. And then it will be the simple matter of getting inside.” He smiled playfully and gave them a wink.

  Somehow it made the prospect seem that much more impossible.

  They moved past the seawall and took to the road. Windows had been broken on the storefronts, but nothing seemed to have been taken. On the street, Gabe noticed an abandoned purse. Cars lined the curb, some of them newer models, but Gabe noticed little patches of rust growing on the finish of their hoods and doors.

  “It’s like everything is aging at a rapid speed,” he said.

  Micah walked past him to a store’s window front. She put her face to the pane and cupped her hands over her eyes to avoid the glare. “Empty. Everything is empty. Oh, my God . . .”

  “What is it?” Gabe joined her, peering through the glass.


  “That necklace,” Micah said. “I’ve never seen diamonds that big.”

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “Whatever,” Micah said and abandoned the glass.

  The silence of the abandoned city hung in the air, alien to such a busy spectacle of cars, stores, sidewalks. Without anyone to walk the pavement, shop in the stores, or drive the cars, the area felt like a stage awaiting its actors.

  A clock by a fountain had frozen. Gabe looked around, finding all the clocks had stopped. “Weird. What’s up with all the clocks?”

  “When the convergence begins, two realms cannot occupy the same time and space. One begins to fade into a timeless limbo, while the other rises to prominence. Time behaves differently when this happens, which might explain how fast we are seeing the results of the vials.” Afarôt looked to the sky, and Gabe followed his gaze. The low, gray clouds darkened in the west. A flash of lightning brightened the horizon.

  “A storm?” Gabe asked, somehow already doubting the question.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Afarôt said.

  Glass shattered, and Gabe turned to see Micah standing next to a car with a rock in her hands.

  She shrugged. “What? We need transportation, right? Who’s going to miss a car during the End of Days?”

  Afarôt smiled as he walked past Gabe. “She has a point.”

  Micah broke the rest of the window and unlocked the vehicle.

  Gabe followed Afarôt and opened the rear door behind the front passenger seat. Afarôt sat up front, waiting on Micah to sit in the driver’s seat. Instead, she walked around the car and opened the other rear door. Tossing her sword case across Gabe’s lap, she sat next to him.

  She noticed Afarôt’s and Gabe’s incredulous stares. “I didn’t say I’d drive, did I? Bloody continentals, anyway, driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  “Well, I certainly can’t drive,” Afarôt said. He bounced on the seat and played with the electronic knob on the door while his backrest inclined and declined. “I’ve never fancied these contraptions. What was wrong with horses?”

  “You’ve been here how long and never bothered to learn?” With an exasperated sigh, Gabe opened his door, walked around the car, and sat in the driver’s seat. He held out his hand to Micah for the key.