by Ted Dekker
Samuel was right; everything was falling apart. The end was coming. Ba’al knew something that they did not. He’d called the Shataiki out of hiding and fed their lust with more than just his own blood.
Send me back to the other world where you sent the chosen one through the lost books . . .
Thomas opened his eyes. What did Ba’al know about this other world?
The chosen one. Could the rumors of the seven original Books of History be true? Had they truly been lost? Was there a way to the other world through those books? And what if Ba’al or Qurong possessed the books at this very moment?
“Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not sure I like it,” Mikil said. “I’ve seen that look before.”
“I’ve lost my son to the half-breeds. Do you expect me to laugh?”
“I wasn’t talking about anger or sorrow.”
No one but Chelise could read him like Mikil. They’d been through the gates of hell together.
“Then what?” Thomas demanded.
“That far-off look,” Mikil said.
Thomas looked away and tried to think through any reasonable course of action. None came to mind.
“I’m at a loss,” he said. “I feel like I’ve been battering my head against a stone wall.”
“Then you might want to try something else,” Jamous said.
“In the past . . .” He let the thought trail off, baiting Mikil.
She took it. “Please, not that again.”
“You have a better idea? All I’m saying is that when I came to the utter end of myself then, the answer always waited for me.”
“In your dreams,” Mikil said.
“Something like that.”
“But your dreams no longer work. Not like that.”
Jamous exhaled. “Shouldn’t we be plotting a course to safety?”
Thomas ignored him. Mikil knew far more about Thomas’s dreams than Jamous did. She’d met one of the women from his dreams once. Monique. Monique de Raison of the Raison Strain. Dear Elyon, to even think about those days when he could travel back and forth with the ease of sleep . . . it felt scandalous now. Perfectly absurd.
Send me back to the other world . . . Thomas’s pulse rode a steady pace.
“That doesn’t mean the other world doesn’t exist. Or that I’m not uniquely chosen to bridge the gap.”
Mikil stared at him with wide green eyes. But she didn’t protest. And she would protest if she wasn’t at least considering the idea.
“Now you’re the chosen one?” she asked.
Thomas shrugged. “My son was right about one thing: there’s much we don’t understand.”
He looked north. Samuel was gone. He’d left with rage in his heart and bitterness on his tongue. There was no way to undo that here. The answers he sought lay elsewhere. Perhaps in the histories.
The urge to recover this last decade, during which he hadn’t found a way to return to the other world even once, ballooned in Thomas’s mind. He faced Mikil.
“You can’t deny it, Mikil. Monique came to you. You know the other world is real.”
No response.
“If there was a way back . . .”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There is no way back. And yes, unless you’ve stopped breathing, you always have a choice.”
“I think there could be a way. And I think I have an obligation to find out if there is a way.”
“This is madness.”
“It’s who I am!” he insisted. “This is my path.” Thomas pointed to the south. “You saw Ba’al! He’s in touch with the dark world. He’ll ride this dragon’s back and devour Elyon’s bride. This is only the beginning.”
“Then the Circle needs you.”
“And you saw the look in Qurong’s eyes. Ba’al is his enemy as much as Eram is. I’m telling you, Mikil, the world is headed for a showdown unlike any we’ve seen.”
“We’ve always known that.”
“But it’s now!” His horse shifted at the sound of his cry.
“We’re not alone,” Jamous said, scanning the cliffs. “Check your passions.”
Thomas took a breath. “Tell me I have no business doing this.”
Mikil kept her silence.
Jamous turned back, confused. “What exactly are you talking about doing? Going to another world?”
Mikil kept her eyes on Thomas. “Going to Qurongi City,” she said.
“You can’t be serious.”
Thomas regarded Mikil steadily. “Then you heard Ba’al as well.”
“Of course I heard.” Mikil set her jaw and looked south, toward the Horde stronghold. “So Ba’al knows a thing or two. What are we to do, rush into his temple and demand he share what he knows?”
“Not we,” Thomas said. “Me.”
She scowled. “Over my dead body.”
“No, over my dead body. I’m dead already. My son’s left me. I lead a people who are falling apart after a decade of running and dying. Qurong may have a hard heart, but his enemies are pressing in, and if Samuel joins the half-breeds, his problems are about to get worse. Qurong is desperate for an ally.”
“The Circle? Albinos may never slaughter Horde again, but we can never be the ally of the one who hunts us!”
“No, not the Circle. Me. I will make Qurong my ally.”
“And die.”
Thomas nodded. “Or die trying.”
17
THE GREAT library ran off the main atrium, just down the hall from Monique de Raison’s office at Raison Pharmaceutical. It contained more than ten thousand volumes, nearly half of which were collector’s editions of old books, each worth a small fortune as books go. They lined mahogany bookcases that rose to the twelve-foot ceilings. The room’s temperature and humidity were controlled by twenty-four digital thermostats, one at each case. The whole room could be counted as the world’s largest humidor.
Kara often came here with Monique, mostly to reflect on the unique connection they shared. Thirty-five years ago, just after the incident, Monique had commissioned two identical green journals embossed with the same title: My Book of History. They’d both written of their experiences, recalling even the minute details, then compared their writings late into the evening, expanding and embellishing as they saw fit, perhaps hoping that these diaries, like the blank Books of History from the other reality, would magically transform their own reality.
Normally the journals were in a safe behind a painting of the Capitol building in Washington, D.C. The painting was significant because, for one, it was a fairly innocuous painting of little value, unlikely to be removed by any thief, and for another, much of Thomas’s past was linked to that building.
It had all started thirty-six years ago in Denver, Colorado, when Thomas had claimed that he lived in a different reality, in the future, and that this one was a figment of his dreams. He was asleep, dreaming of history in the other, real reality.
None of Kara’s world was real, he said.
She’d quickly convinced him that this was real. They had both grown up as army brats in the Philippines and spoke Tagalog to prove it. Their father, a chaplain, had left their mother for a Filipino woman half her age after twenty years of marriage.
Kara had thrown herself into higher education and studied to become a nurse, which she did successfully. Thomas hadn’t fared quite so well. He left the Philippines a well-known and respected street fighter with a wicked scoring foot on the soccer field, and landed in New York as a lost soul who didn’t quite fit. When his life finally came apart, he fled New York, moved in with Kara in Denver, and took a job at the Java Hut while he put things back together.
The dreaming had started then, late one night in Denver, with a single silenced bullet out of nowhere. Loan sharks from New York were chasing him, he claimed. But soon after Thomas left her for the final time, Kara had sought out said loan sharks, eager to avoid any lingering bad blood, only to discover that they weren’t th
e ones in the alley that night.
The identity of the men who had been chasing Thomas thirty-six years earlier remained a mystery to this day.
As for his dreams, well, that was the question, wasn’t it? Just how real were those dreams of his? At one time she’d been sure they were real. But three decades later, it all seemed a bit fuzzy.
Real or not, Thomas’s dreams of another world had forever altered Kara’s life. Monique’s as well, but on many levels Monique was still the same bioengineer she’d been when Thomas first met her.
Kara, on the other hand, had found living in the United States nearly impossible. She had been inexorably drawn back to Southeast Asia. Back to the land and people who’d birthed her.
Back to Thomas’s own history.
She’d never married as Monique had, fearful that any relationship might suffer the same fate as Monique’s, a passionate and all-consuming but short-lived flame. A rocket rather than a candle.
Kara was no Mother Teresa, but she’d given the last three decades of her life to serving the young, broken girls of Bangkok’s sex industry.
And she’d dreamed. Dreamed of what it would be like to dream with Thomas’s blood once again. Of what it would be like to vanish from this world and wake in another, if only until she fell asleep again.
But it wasn’t that simple. Greatness was never that simple.
Monique had asked Kara to join her here while she decided what to do about Janae. She stood and crossed to the towering bookcase that housed part of the collection from Turkey, in which the scholar David Abraham had first discovered the Books of History. Of course, Monique had never been able to secure even a single volume of the books, and the other titles on the shelf, however valuable and ancient, couldn’t remotely compare.
Her gaunt face betrayed the anguish that had flogged her for the last eight hours. She tried to interest herself in the books but, unable to do so, returned to her seat where she settled and crossed her legs.
“What would he do?” she asked. She turned her face to Kara, who clasped her hands behind her back and paced on the round handwoven rug under the crystal chandelier. “Tell me that, Kara, and I swear I’ll leave the whole thing alone. I’ll let her die . . .” Her voiced trailed off.
“You mean Thomas?”
“Because she’ll die. They’ll both die in the next eight hours if I don’t administer the blood. They might die anyway. We hold their lives in our hands, you and I. But what would Thomas have done?”
“My brother didn’t always do the most logical thing.”
“Maybe because the most logical thing isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Listen to you,” Kara chided. “You were always the strong one, demanding we follow the strictest policy.”
Monique nodded. Dabbed at a tear that broke from her right eye before it smeared her mascara. “All I want to know is whether you think Thomas Hunter would ever sacrifice his son or daughter for the good of others.”
Kara considered the question.
“Listen to me, Monique. You’re every bit as much a sister to me as Thomas was a brother. He and I share the same mother, but you and Thomas share the same heart. And blood, if you consider the fact that you entered his dream world.”
“It was more than a dream, you—”
“Okay, it was. My point is that you’re as qualified as I am to answer your question.”
But Monique didn’t. In this reality anyway, Monique wasn’t capable of killing her own daughter.
“Okay.” Kara walked to the overstuffed chair next to Monique and eased down. She held her hands in her lap and leaned back. Blew some air. “We both know that Thomas would probably break every rule to save his son or daughter. So let’s break this down. Assuming—just assuming— we give Billy and Janae a small dose of the blood, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Monique looked up. “They enter the other reality, get their hands on the Books of History. Only God knows how much damage they might do with the power to write anything into existence. Please don’t tell me you don’t see the danger.”
“Just making sure we’re on the same page. It is all a bit mind-bending. Back on point, I think Thomas would save his daughter regardless of consequence.”
Monique held her gaze, neither accepting nor rejecting the notion outwardly.
She continued. “What steps could we take to mitigate any danger? We have considerable resources at our disposal. Maybe we’re thinking about this all wrong.”
Monique averted her eyes and stared into space. For a few moments she seemed lost, but the haze that enveloped her gave way to the faintest sparkle. “We could lock them up,” she said, turning back to Kara. “Assuming the blood keeps them alive.”
“There’s no guarantee of that. It’s never been attempted. We’re only guessing that his blood will have an effect on the virus.”
“It saved you and me from the virus once before.”
“Yes, it did.”
“Janae and Billy clearly think it would work.”
“Okay, assuming the blood works, which is the hope, they go into the other reality and return to find themselves locked up until we can determine what to do.”
“For all we know they won’t enter the other reality. Their eyes to that reality can only be opened if they believe . . .”
“Clearly, they believe. They’re risking their lives for the chance to travel.”
Monique smoothed her skirt with nervous hands, rubbed her palms on the arms of the chair. Unable to sit still, she pushed herself up, then quickly walked to the door and back.
“You’re saying we should actually do this?”
“I’m saying Thomas would,” Kara said.
“And if we were to keep them restrained, we would reduce the risk to our world considerably.”
“Well, no, I didn’t say that. We would mitigate the immediate threat they might pose. If they do get a taste of the other world, they won’t forget it because we slap their hands when they awaken here.”
“Then we keep them in chains,” Monique said. The prospect of saving her daughter at any cost was asserting itself. “Better alive and in chains than dead.”
“Maybe. We still have no control over what they might do in the other reality. For all we know, they might find a way to blow open the passage between our worlds.”
“We could destroy the rest of the blood. A return trip would be impossible.”
“Unless they find another way.”
“Assuming they even go,” Monique shot back. “Even then they would only be over there until they sleep. Hours, maybe a day, no more.”
“More than enough time to—”
“Are you for this or aren’t you?” Monique snapped. “Make up your mind. First you say Thomas would save his daughter, now you go to great lengths to make sure I understand what a terrible decision it is? I can’t play these games!”
Kara acquiesced. If Janae or Billy were the child she never had, she’d be crawling the walls. “Just want to be clear.” She stood. “How long will it take?”
That settled Monique. “I could have the blood here in five hours.”
“Well, then. Make the call.”
They faced each other, aware of the momentous decision they were making. The blood was their forbidden drug as much as it was Janae and Billy’s. They probably should have incinerated it a long time ago.
“Save your daughter, Monique. Make the call now, before it’s too late.”
18
SAMUEL PULLED up on his reins and grabbed a fistful of air to signal a full stop. His comrades Petrus, Jacob, and Herum held back at horse length. A lone, stubborn buzzard peered at them from the cliff top ahead and then flapped for the sky to join two that had just vacated their perch.
It was something else, not they, who’d sent the birds away.
“Easy, boys,” Samuel said quietly. “No sudden movements. We’ve come as friends, let’s make sure they know that.”
T
he cliffs rose vertically on three sides, leaving only a thin trail ahead up the steep face, or a retreat behind. Samuel had met up with his men, who’d shadowed him as planned, then led them into the canyon, knowing it was a dead end. Only a fool would venture so deep into Eramite territory. The half-breeds’ tracks were nearly covered by the sand, only visible to the trained eye, perhaps. But to Jacob, who could spot the trail of a Shataiki ghost on a field of rocks, the sign screamed danger. Any Eramites patrolling this far from their main city would be warriors, surely perplexed over what kind of fool albinos would set themselves up so easily.
And why their leader wore only a cloak of dried blood.
“I don’t like it,” Jacob mumbled. “They have skilled archers. We’re mice in a pit.”
“They’re Horde, not cats. Open your arms.” Samuel released his reins and spread his arms wide in a sign of nonaggression.
Three hours had passed since he left Thomas and the others at the edge of Eramite territory. What his father would do now was anyone’s guess. The man was given to rashness matched only by his courage.
But that bravery was now misaligned with an old, dead philosophy that clung to fading hopes. Only three years ago Samuel would have challenged any man or woman who spoke back to his father. He’d been younger and naive, a blind follower like the rest. So much of what they experienced could be explained as the working of Elyon.
But the realities of life cast doubt on that interpretation. Samuel’s experience had slowly but thoroughly crushed his wholehearted acceptance of all he’d been taught. He awoke from a fitful sleep a year ago and realized he didn’t know what he believed any longer.
Who could say that Elyon wasn’t just another force in their world, like gravity or muscle or the sword, manipulated by his users?
Who was to say that the scabbing disease was a disease at all? What if it was just another condition of man, cleansed by the medicinal red waters?
Who was to say that the fruit was a gift from Elyon? Why not just a product of the land with powerful properties?
Who was to say that Teeleh was more than another force, counterbalancing the force called Elyon? Absolute good and evil were nothing more than constructs fashioned by humans who needed to understand and order their everyday lives.
