“And the life force can come from any living thing,” she repeated for clarification.
“Yes. Ben Franklin was known to be an active humanitarian. So it’s likely his secret rituals with the Hellfire Club involved only sacrificing farm animals.”
“How noble of him,” she remarked coldly. “So why sacrifice people at all? Wouldn’t that be more of a risk of getting caught?”
He sighed. “The greater the risk, the greater the reward. Every creature has a life force, but imagine each one like a battery. Sacrificing a field mouse will not fuel a cultist’s magical powers the way a human would, especially one who’s pure of heart. That battery’s got a lot more juice.”
“So they’re like vampires,” she suggested.
“In a way, I suppose,” he considered. “Except they’re not really feeding as much as they’re stealing. And their lives don’t depend on it.”
“Still,” she argued, “I’d rather see them as vampires than see my soul, or life force, as a damn battery. And for the record Michael, my childhood’s pretty much scarred now, even without the info about Ben Franklin.”
“Hey, look,” he replied. “It’s all speculation. There’s no real proof that Benjamin Franklin ever harmed a living creature or participated in any satanic ritual. Just pieces of evidence that suggest it.” She didn’t seem to have felt better by his saying this, so he stopped trying to placate her and changed his tone to a lighter one. “Besides, your childhood was pretty much messed up anyway, since it was deprived of the Star Wars universe.”
Megan leaned her head against her window. The coolness of the glass did little to numb the minor headache that bothered her suddenly. She might have appreciated his new attempt as comic relief if absorbing everything in such a short amount of time wasn’t too much for her, and though she had been curious to know what he knew, she started to wish she hadn’t asked him any questions. “It’s inevitable, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Sooner or later they’ll complete a Dark Year. Even if it doesn’t happen in our lifetime…”
As if knowing it would help, Michael took his right hand off the steering wheel and gently placed it into hers. She gripped it tightly, as it somehow provided more relief than the window. “One thing I’ll say about humanity,” he said with a voice as gentle as his touch, “is that it always endures. The darkness always appears stronger. Its presence much more noticeable than goodness. But goodness never dies, despite evil’s best efforts. Even in the worst of times, you can still find hope… compassion… friendship… forgiveness… love. And faith.”
She turned to him with a weak smile. His voice itself was the magic of healing as her heart felt just a little less heavy from those words. If the completion of a Dark Year really did welcome one or more of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, if the world were ever to end in fire and brimstone, she hoped he’d be there by her side to keep her from despair. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure.”
“Tell me about your sword.”
Michael sipped his coffee again. “Said to have magical qualities. There are some pretty rare artifacts and lesser known methods that I’ve learned much about from the old parchments that were left in my keeping. The sword is one of them. Took me a very long time to get my hands on that one.”
“It helped you remove my curse,” she added. “How did it work?”
“There’s a special power that resides in it. Not a particular thing, just something that enhances my focus. It’s said that the wooden hilt underneath the leather wrapping and decorations was once a piece of Moses’ staff.”
Megan did a double take at him. “Are you serious?”
“Again,” he repeated, “it’s suggested in the parchments. I can’t say I actually believe that. The more credible theory is that some very powerful Keepers from a much older age, when they were old and close to death, would transfer all of their energies they’ve absorbed from the Alpha Magic into such artifacts and items in order to pass on their power, so that they could assist other Keepers.”
Her interest heightened. “Personally, I like the idea of the possibility that it was from a piece of the staff of Moses.”
“Sounds cool, yeah. But nowhere near as likely as the other theory.”
“Well, what makes you believe it’s more likely that it’s passed down energy from former Keepers?”
“My guns.”
“Come again?”
“My two pistols,” he clarified.
“They’re ancient artifacts? How is that true?” Her tone revealed her surprise.
Michael sipped his coffee again. “The pistols themselves are actually rather new,” he admitted. “But they’re also modified.”
“Modified how?”
“Some of the original internal, mechanical parts have been replaced. I also searched far and wide for them. The parts I replaced them with came from a pair of special revolvers from the late 1800’s in the Old West. Even though these parts are over a hundred years old, they’ve never rusted. Never gone bad or needed repair. And the pistols these parts now occupy have served me well. Because of the pieces from those special revolvers, there’s undying magic inside my guns, I’m sure of it.”
“That’s incredible,” Megan said with astonishment. “Where did the original revolvers come from?”
Michael paused before answering. “They belonged to the last known Paladin.”
An odd sensation filled her, as if his answer caused a wave of magical energy to burst through the inside of the truck for just an instant. When it was gone, Megan spoke again. “The last Paladin,” she repeated. “You mean, you’re the first Paladin in over a hundred years?”
Michael nodded. “Keepers of White were always very rare, Megan. But the Paladins of older times much more so. It’s why they are only a legend. Now, look at the present. The Keepers are nearly extinct, which means that the existence of Paladins would be extremely few and far between. Besides, no one simply becomes a Paladin. A Keeper of White has to choose that path. And not many did so.”
“Why not?”
“If I understood the parchments correctly, it’s a much harder life. A more secluded life. They are no longer considered to be directly attached to their former faction of Keepers.” He paused. “Again, I could be wrong about all of it. There’s not much information about it. Some of it I’ve had to piece together.”
Megan could tell that Michael struggled to relay what he knew of the subject, based on his hesitations within his sentences, so she returned to her initial interest in his sword. “So these artifacts… do others know about them?”
Michael shook his head. “Whatever Keeper who had been in charge of recording such information into the parchments and scrolls never duplicated his writings. They were extremely careful to make sure the information found in them wouldn’t be seen by more than just a handful of eyes throughout history.”
“Father Paul seemed to recognize the sword,” Megan remarked worriedly. “I remember the fear in his voice when he asked you where you got it.”
“He didn’t recognize it,” Michael assured her. “He only recognized that it was powerful with white magic. The secret parchments were always entrusted to just one Keeper, with a clear directive not to share their knowledge unless absolutely necessary, and even then only the parts of them that were necessary. Usually, he or she kept the information completely hidden until it was time to pass it down to the next worthy Keeper.”
“And they were passed down to you?”
He nodded. “From my mentor, Father James. The former pastor at St. Elizabeth’s. And even he never read any of it.”
“Why not?”
“They weren’t really passed down to him. He was charged with only keeping them safe until I was of age to take responsibility for them. Just as he was charged with keeping me safe.”
“Then who officially passed them down to you?” she asked with wonder.
“The same person who wiped my memory, apparently,” he stated.
“Another Keeper? Why would someone do that?”
“To protect me,” he replied. “According to Father James.”
“I’m so sorry Michael,” Megan said as she placed a hand on his shoulder.
He smiled at her. “Thanks, but I’m over it. Can’t be bitter about something you don’t remember, right? All I have from the time I can’t recall are the parchments left for me, my tattoo, and my pendant.” He tapped the front of his jersey, indicating what was worn underneath, hanging by a thin strand of black rope around his neck.
“That’s another one of those artifacts too? Does it really give you protection?”
“I think so,” he answered. “And it has other uses that I won’t get into right now. It has this symbol on it that looks like an elongated and slanted “Z.” It’s called Eihwaz, the Norse rune of the Yew tree. Viking archers constructed their bows from the Yew.”
“And that makes it the rune of protection?”
“Well… the rune of defense. Eihwaz has a lot of meanings: life and death, immortality, and resilience to name a few. The rune that represents protection from evil and harm is called Algiz, which is a different symbol altogether.”
Megan tilted her head in thought. “So how come you weren’t given that one? I mean, if the Algiz rune means protection, why would someone leave you a rune with a different meaning for you to protect yourself with?”
“Beats me,” Michael replied. “But I don’t that matters. If my theory is right, the protective magic was channeled into the artifact itself. The rune engraved into it is just a design.” He pulled the medallion from underneath his jersey and held it in his palm so she could get a closer look.
Megan studied it momentarily, filled with wonder. The silver pendant appeared solid as it glimmered in the afternoon sunlight, yet it had the rustic look of something from ancient times as well. “It’s beautiful,” she remarked. “So why did you say you think it protects you, as if you’re not sure?”
“Well,” Michael admitted, “I don’t know the extent of the protection it gives me. There have been times when I’ve been hurt, like when I tripped down a few steps and scraped my knees, or accidentally cut my finger while chopping onions, even though I was wearing it.”
“Then how do you know if it works?” she questioned.
“I think it’s a subtle magic,” he suggested as he tucked the necklace back under his shirt. “Like, maybe I tripped down the steps on my way out the door and scraped my knees, but if I hadn’t I might have been hit by a bus when crossing the street. Maybe the tumble I took also gave me the few seconds’ delay to have the bus pass by before I got there. Most magical artifacts work like that. They exert their power without anyone even noticing, even their owner. My weapons are some of the few exceptions.”
“Still,” Megan commented, “having a necklace like that must sure come in handy.”
“It can at times,” he agreed. “Other times it backfires.”
“What do you mean?”
“First, it has its limits. The parchments mentioned that artifacts of protection won’t work for a Keeper who willingly places himself in danger. So if I choose to step out in front of a bus, I won’t be walking away from that. And last night, when I interrupted the Ritual of the New Moon, I willingly engaged. So the pendant was useless to me during all the fighting. It only protected me from their dark spells. But if Father Paul was a better fighter than I, we wouldn’t be on our way to New Jersey right now.”
Megan remained silent for a moment, as she considered this. While she was in his company and hearing of all the interesting parts of this world that she had been completely oblivious to until the night of her capture, it was easy to forget how close to death she had come. Before allowing herself to return to a grave state of mind, she forced herself to remain focused on feeding her curiosity. “Well, it’s not really backfiring if you know how it works… or doesn’t work.”
He didn’t answer right away, but the look on his face suddenly showed the same steel of anger she had seen when he burst through the wooden door of the underground chamber the night before.
“I told you that my faction mates were all hunted down,” he said finally. “There were actually five of us who survived at first. But we were eventually discovered as well. The Agents of Shadow succeeded in killing two of us. A third, they crippled badly. It’s highly unlikely that they didn’t make the same attempts on my life, and the life of my friend Barbara. I’m sure several attempts were made, actually. We just didn’t know about them.” He tapped the spot on his jersey again, where the pendant hung underneath. “Subtle magic going unnoticed.” “So, I suppose when the agents finally caught on that we were protected, when they realized they couldn’t get to us…”
“They went after someone close to you instead,” Megan whispered with both fear and sympathy. “Are you going to tell me who she was?”
Michael didn’t respond. He only stared down the road ahead of them, with a blank expression.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be intrusive.”
“It’s alright.”
For several minutes the dreary silence infected the space between them. Again. There was no avoiding it, she realized. No matter how many times they found a way to brighten their spirits and remember the better parts of the world around them, they always came back to the realization of the ever-growing presence of the shadow that kept its iron boot hovering over humanity, every so often stomping violently on those better parts.
Megan couldn’t take much more of the silence. She felt it best to resume the conversation as if the mood hadn’t gone sour. “So,” she said softly, “How do you keep these secret parchments safe so no one else can get ahold of them?”
He attempted a smirk that appeared more like a grimace. “That’s classified, darlin’. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to stop talking about all of it. At least for a while.”
Megan placed her hand on his as he kept his sights on the road. “It’s okay,” she said gently. “I understand.” It was clear to her that the thoughts of his past hadn’t left him after bringing it up. She didn’t really want to discuss any more of it either. But she knew that another lengthy silence would do nothing to brighten the ambiance. “Can we still talk though,” she asked meekly, “about normal stuff?”
“I’d like that,” he said as his grimace formed into a weak smile.
Chapter VI
Detective Harrison stared at his computer screen like a zombie, unable to focus, unable to relax. He had lost count of the number of sleep-deprived shifts he’d worked in his career, and he thought that at some point, he’d get used to them. Instead, he found that the older he became, the harder it was to go without a proper night’s rest.
Finding nothing physically wrong with him, the nurse practitioner at the E.R. had issued him his discharge papers soon after his arrival in the ambulance the night before. The only remedy she had for him was the stern advice to go straight home and get some sleep. The first half of her orders was followed immediately; Gibbons, who had been his ride, saw to that. The second half was not so easy. He had been exhausted when his partner dropped him off, and he had made himself as comfortable in his bed as possible, having swallowed two aspirins and having showered after his long night of misadventures. But there was no shutting his racing mind off, not even slowing it down.
Harrison had spent most of the morning filling out reports, giving his statement, and fielding a bombardment of questions and criticisms by Captain Metz, who was already less pleasant than a bear woken from hibernation, having taken on the responsibilities of this SNAFU of a case since there was still no sign of Chief Biddle. And Metz was just as confused with the mystery surrounding the fire at the school house, Diana Palmer, Megan Panco, and the strange new player in the game: the biker she was with last night. No matter how many questions he had drilled Gibbons and Harrison with, they were still all at a loss.
Harrison had, under the direction of Metz, requ
ested that the authorities on scene get information on the small convoy of Cadillac Escalades parked outside the premises of the school house, hoping it would shed some light on the parties involved with the fiasco, but when the fire fighters had finally contained the inferno in the storm cellar by mid-morning, federal investigators had arrived on scene and used their authoritative muscle to take over every aspect of the case. And Harrison learned they were, for some reason, keeping a tight lid on the details, showing they were in no mood to share. All information that had been filtering into the precinct had suddenly stopped, and the only report Harrison and Metz had gotten was that several bodies had been recovered from the storm cellar.
From that point on, the only authority given to the state police was to conduct an all-hands search for the man on the black sport bike, and the young woman, claiming herself as the missing Megan Panco, who had left the scene with him.
Harrison had used his short lunch break to drive by Diana Palmer’s home again, but found it crawling with men in suits and shades. He didn’t stop to chat with the assumed feds, figuring they’d give him nothing, but he noticed that Dr. Palmer’s Mercedes was no longer in the driveway. He had also made another attempt to contact Jim Panco, but the call went right to voicemail. Harrison had left a short message, asking Jim to call him back immediately, but he sensed the attempt to reach out to him was going to be another dead end.
By the time he made it back into his office, Harrison discovered that the feds released the name of the suspect on the bike, a terrorist who had been high on the FBI’s Persons of Interest List, now suddenly upgraded to their Most Wanted List. A man by the name of Michael Messenger.
Harrison had gone over the Wanted lists of several agencies many times during his tenure as state police detective, having always specialized in Missing Persons, and though he never memorized the extensive lists names and their photographs, he had always kept a mental note of the so-called “higher-uppers” on those lists, as well as anyone who had a history of activity in or near Lancaster County. He never remembered a Michael Messenger. There was also no picture of the guy. All that was released to the precinct was a sketch that seemed to resemble the man he had briefly encountered the night before.
The Paladin's Redemption (The Keepers of White Book 3) Page 17
