Nephilim

by Barrowman, John; Barrowman, Carole;

  ‘Come, my friend,’ said a voice. ‘Ah’ve a wagon waiting.’

  35.

  CALCULUS NOT THE WORST

  PRESENT DAY

  ‘Jesus,’ said Matt, the mug of coffee sloshing in his grip. ‘How could you not remember that?’

  ‘How could you not forget it?’ said Em, her pale skin even whiter. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  She darted down the hallway to the kitchen. The others waited in silence until she returned, bringing bottles of water with her.

  ‘So this creature,’ said Matt. ‘It’s here? In the twenty-first century?’

  ‘Yes. Lucius – Luca – Ferrante is here,’ said Caravaggio.

  ‘Ferrante?’ repeated Rémy. ‘The Roman guy, the immortal Commander of the Camarilla? He has wings?’

  ‘He is a nephilim,’ said Caravaggio. ‘Half angel, half human. When he is in his angel form he has wings and is massive in stature. He’s here to take back what I stole from him and his Camarilla.’

  ‘But he got the bolt of fabric,’ said Matt, puzzled.

  ‘What I kept from him was not in the fabric. That was a diversion suggested by the man who saved me that day, the man I was supposed to be meeting on the embankment. All Luca got was a cheap bolt of wool.’

  ‘What happened to Sebina?’ asked Matt. ‘The one who killed Lippita and used her body?’

  Caravaggio stood and stretched. ‘I only saw Luca emerge from my canvas this morning in Rome. Not Sebina. I do not know her fate. But this morning in Rome when Luca appeared to me, I remembered who he was ... and what I’d done for him.’

  ‘What exactly had you done for him?’

  ‘I sold my powers to the Camarilla as a young man.’

  ‘I knew you couldn’t be trusted,’ hissed Matt, sweeping his hand over the table, sending papers and Post-its flying.

  ‘I did what I needed to do to survive,’ the artist replied, stabbing the air in front of Matt’s face with his finger. ‘I was never as strong as you and your sister, and I knew nothing of Guardians or places of sanctuary until I was rescued from the Tiber river that night. But you need to know this, and to believe it. In this century, in your lifetimes, I’ve never betrayed my kind.’

  ‘Let me get this clear,’ said Rémy. ‘If this half-man, half-angel creature, Luca, is working for the Watchers and their Second Kingdom, then why is he jonesing for you and not me? I’m the only one who can stop them, right?’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ said the artist. ‘The prophecy suggests the Conjuror can choose.’

  ‘Choose what?’

  ‘To destroy the Second Kingdom,’ Caravaggio replied, ‘or to create it. I think Luca believes he can convince you to help him.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Shit,’ said Rémy. ‘I really miss the days when I thought calculus would kill me.’

  ‘The Camarilla need three items to build their Second Kingdom.’ Caravaggio ticked off the three on his fingers. ‘One: a Conjuror. Two: a golden lyre. And three: the sacred chord, sometimes known as the Devil’s Interval, for the Conjuror to play upon the lyre. We are closer than they are to finding these things. We have you already, Rémy. And I remembered when I saw Luca this morning that I had hidden the sacred chord in one of my paintings.’

  ‘And the lyre?’ asked Em.

  Caravaggio shook his head. ‘I was looking for that when we first met. I have had no luck yet.’

  ‘A’right, now we’re getting somewhere,’ exclaimed Rémy. He hit the space bar on the computer. ‘Is this the painting where you hid the sacred chord?’

  Caravaggio looked up at the screen, at the Holy Family and the black-winged angel. At the music on the music stand. ‘Ah, such exquisiteness, such beauty. My Tomas. He was always my best angel. His back, his arms…’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘Such perfection.’

  Rémy waved his two fingers in front of the artist’s eyes. ‘Focus!’

  ‘Yes,’ said the artist. ‘This is the one.’

  ‘We need to go to Chicago and get that painting,’ said Rémy. ‘I’m not waiting around for the Camarilla or this Ferrante dude to come find me first.’

  Em stood up and embraced him. ‘It’s going to be hard for you,’ she said softly.

  ‘I can handle fear,’ he told the top of her pink-and-black head. ‘It’s just that when I fled, I didn’t even have time to bury my family…’

  ‘I’m sure your friend, Sotto, took care of them,’ said Em.

  ‘I know he did. But I don’t want Sotto and his family fighting my battles any more. We need to get that painting – and destroy it.’

  36.

  REWIND

  Caravaggio stood in front of his painting on the screen, the sun’s early light diffusing through the room like flickering candles. There was a lot of the twenty-first century that he liked: devices that played music, paint in squeezable tubes, paper in colours that didn’t need to be treated for days, soft wipes in flushing water closets, fresh fruit on demand. But what shocked him every day when he faded through modern Paris, Florence, Rome, Madrid and Milan, the cities of his life, was how the people with whom he’d populated his art so long ago – the poor, the forgotten, the exploited – were no less disposable or poor than they had been in his time. He found it difficult to fathom, and disappointing to know, that the poor had successfully stormed only a handful of Bastilles since his time.

  ‘I first saw Luca Ferrante at the wedding for Count Marche’s youngest daughter,’ he began. ‘He cornered me in the library and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘Rewind,’ said Matt with a snort. ‘You could have refused, but you didn’t.’

  ‘I couldn’t refuse,’ Caravaggio repeated, ‘because hunger was gnawing at my gut and vanity was squeezing my soul. I needed patronage and porridge. When I looked into his eyes, I thought at first he was a Guardian sent to reprimand me for my public displays of animation. At that time they were mostly related to my physical needs. Which are many, I might add.’

  Em sighed.

  ‘I bound the sacred chord in this painting as Luca Ferrante asked. He and the Camarilla used me for smaller imaginings, but hiding this chord bought me my largest commission. However, when a dear friend enlightened me on the Second Kingdom and the prophecy in the Book of Songs – well. You might say I got cold feet.’

  ‘And,’ said Em, disgust shading her tone, ‘your humanity rose to the surface?’

  ‘Let’s just say my heart was convinced,’ Caravaggio said, annoyed at her tone. ‘You and your brother would have done the same in my circumstances. Hunger is a powerful motivator.’ He eyed Matt. ‘As is sex.’

  Rémy was rifling around in his guitar case. ‘I’ll call Sotto and let him know we’re coming to Chicago,’ he said. ‘Do you guys have passports?’

  Caravaggio laughed. ‘You three are precious. A nephilim is chasing me across time for a scrap of music I hid in a painting. A painting that likely got your mother killed, Rémy. This nephilim also has the entire Camarilla looking for you both. And you think travel papers will get you back to the New World?’

  ‘Would you stop calling it the New World?’ said Rémy. ‘It was populated before any of your people got there.’

  ‘So you say, my friend,’ said the artist, softening his tone but hardening his expression. ‘Just remember this. The sheet music is useless to the Camarilla if they don’t have their hands on a Conjuror or the sacred instrument. Going to Chicago might put you into their hands. That is one third of the battle won. Are you sure it’s the best move?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether it is or it isn’t,’ said Rémy. ‘It’s the move I’m making. I’m tired of running away. My mom spent her life looking over her shoulder. I don’t want to live that way any more.’ He smiled at Matt and Em. ‘Besides, I have the best Animare in the world on my side.’

  Matt went into the kitchen, opened the freezer and lifted out a portable safe from under a frozen lasagne. ‘A key, please, Em,’ he said.

/>   Em went to the whiteboard, and in a splash of copper a key appeared in the lock of the safe. Matt popped it open and counted out three hundred dollars. He closed the safe as Em erased the drawing.

  ‘If you have decided to go,’ said Caravaggio with a shrug, ‘there is nothing more that I can do but drink and hope that you succeed.’ He lifted Vaughn’s whisky from the coffee table and stretched himself out under Matt’s tartan blanket. ‘I shall be comforted by your scent, young Matt, until you return with my art.’

  Matt threw a stapler at him.

  ‘OK,’ Em said. ‘No phones. We don’t need anyone tracking us.’

  The three of them tossed their phones on the coffee table. Em logged on to the Orion database and opened a secure file, labelled ART HISTORY. She typed fast, scrolling down only once. ‘I’ve got the paintings we need to use to fade,’ she said. ‘Use the landline, Rémy, and tell Sotto to meet us outside the Art Institute in Chicago.’

  Matt looked worried. ‘That’s a long way, Em. Are you sure?’

  ‘No, but I have faith in us.’

  ‘If time remains constant when an Animare fades,’ Caravaggio mumbled, well on his way to a drunken stupor, ‘it stands to reason that distance may hold too. Or at least shrink.’

  Matt shrugged. ‘I guess we’re going to Chicago, then.’

  Rémy made the call.

  37.

  TRAINS, PLANES AND PAINTINGS

  Matt darted round the traffic on Princes Street in Edinburgh. His hip clipped the edge of a Fiat. The driver blared his horn. Matt didn’t stop until he reached the pavement on the other side. Rémy and Em crossed at the traffic lights.

  ‘I thought we were in a hurry,’ Matt said when Rémy and Em finally caught up.

  ‘We are in enough danger as it is,’ snapped Em. ‘I do not plan to get taken out by a Hibs fan.’

  A few minutes later they were inside the Scottish National Gallery, taking the lift to the top floor. When the doors closed, Em pulled out the stop button used by curators to hold the lift.

  ‘Maybe we should split up?’ Rémy suggested. ‘Two of us go to Chicago while one stays in Scotland? If I’m wrong about the painting, someone needs to warn Orion.’

  ‘We need to do this together,’ said Matt. ‘We’ve never been to Chicago, and you may need help when you get there.’

  ‘I don’t need your help,’ Rémy began, bristling.

  ‘Boys,’ said Em, stepping between them. ‘This is getting old. And I’m tired of being the peacemaker. So here’s the deal. We will all go to Chicago. Matt will need the help fading. It’s a long way, and—’

  Someone thumped on the lift doors.

  ‘Are you OK in there?’ a female voice asked. ‘Is the lift stuck?’

  The twins recognized the voice as belonging to one of the volunteer tour guides in the museum who was not aware of Orion. Em hit the button and the lift began its ascent to the upper floor. Cutting round a school group filing into the French Impressionist gallery, the three sprinted to Edouard Vuillard’s La Chambre Rose.

  ‘We’ll need to be fast, Matt,’ warned Em.

  ‘You look worried,’ said Rémy.

  ‘Wee bit,’ said Em. ‘Vuillard left parts of this painting unfinished. It was a technique he used for texture and depth. He also liked—’

  ‘Short-story version,’ interrupted Matt. ‘If we fade into an unfinished spot, we can get stuck. Permanently.’

  ‘The train to London is sounding more appealing by the second,’ Rémy said.

  ‘The painting on Vuillard’s bedroom wall will take us to the National Gallery in London,’ Em told him. ‘We can fade from the Seurat there to the Art Institute in Chicago.’

  ‘Do it,’ said Rémy, taking Em’s hand.

  Matt flipped open his sketchpad and began to draw. Em placed her hand on his shoulder. In an instant her imagination pushed its power towards his, creating a cloak of pale white light around the three of them. Matt’s fingers skated across the page, sparks of brilliant colour shooting through his fingers. Em’s limbs felt like they were melting. Rémy burst into light first.

  38.

  A SMALL PRICE TO PAY

  The guards rushed into the gallery seconds after the three had faded.

  ‘Nora was sure there was something strange about those teenagers,’ said the first guard, looking around.

  ‘So where the hell did they go?’ asked the second guard in a puzzled voice.

  The first guard stepped closer to Vuillard’s La Chambre Rose. He ran his foot over marks on the floor. Kneeling, he stuck his finger into the stain. With a yelp, he yanked his finger away.

  ‘What is it?’ said his partner.

  ‘It’s bloody hot.’ The guard lifted his finger to his nose and sniffed. ‘Smells like turpentine.’

  ‘We should raise the alarm.’

  The first guard was still on his knees, looking up at the painting when the blow came. His partner was scrambling for his radio when he was hit as well. He rolled beneath the electronic eye and set off the alarm. The gallery doors began to slide shut.

  Nora Patterson, part-time tour guide for the Scottish National Gallery, hitched up her skirt and slid underneath a gate as it dropped. Then she straightened her blouse and walked smartly to the stairs, where she helped the teachers get the schoolchildren out of the door and into the park. A busload of pensioners needed assistance getting outside, so that it was at least a half-hour before she could head to the coffee shop beneath the gallery.

  She spotted him at a table in the corner behind a shelf of gallery souvenirs, nursing a cup of hot chocolate. He smiled when she pulled out the seat in front of him, then drew a half-circle and three slashes across the creamy foam on top. Nora recognized the shape with a thrill of adrenaline. It matched the tattoo on the taut muscle above his hipbone. Alerting him to any strange coming and goings at the gallery was a small price to pay for the pleasure he gave her in return.

  Luca reached over and set his hands on top of hers. Nora felt such a surge of desire, she squirmed a little on the chair.

  ‘I can’t stop shaking,’ she said, setting her trembling hands flat on the glass tabletop. ‘I did what you asked. Oh God, what if I’ve killed those two guards?’

  He carefully wiped the cream from his finger with the edge of a napkin. She noticed the napkin was covered in strange doodles and Roman numerals, a little Latin tucked among the scribbles.

  ‘Your reward will be doubled, my love,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well. Now tell me again exactly where they said they were going?’

  Nora hadn’t felt this giddy in years. Every sense was heightened. She could hear the most beautiful melody in her head: a flute, sensual and seductive, drowning out the sirens from outside. She inhaled his scent in gulps. He smelled of spice and musk and something indescribable.

  She felt his hand on her hips, her skirt sliding up her thighs as he lifted her on to the table, his body pressing against her, his soft lips kissing her. She gasped. People might see, but she didn’t care.

  ‘On the floor!’

  The guide found herself thrown to the ground. A police officer in full riot gear put her boot on her back.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Nora gasped. Her heart thumped in her chest as she remembered the sound as the two guards fell after she hit them. Her vision was blurring. Vomit rose in her throat.

  Oh God, what had she done?

  ‘Stay still!’

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ she moaned.

  The officer pulled her on to her knees. ‘Go ahead.’

  She turned her head, her body wrenching until she had nothing left. The officer dragged her to her feet. Two other officers, also in riot gear, had circled the table.

  ‘She assaulted two of the museum’s guards,’ said a female officer. ‘Gallery got an anonymous tip she also planted explosives.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ moaned Nora, tears choking her as she looked around. ‘It’s his fault. I would never…’

  Luca was gone
.

  Nora fought against the restraints tight on her wrists. ‘Did you get him?’ she said piteously. ‘He paid me to do it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His name is…’ Suddenly she couldn’t remember. ‘He was here! I swear.’

  A crowd gathered outside the windows. One of the security guards was pointing at Nora from inside an ambulance, a medic holding ice at his head, and all she could think was: at least I didn’t kill them.

  She struggled as the police officers round her hooked their arms under her shoulders and grabbed her feet. They carried Nora screaming through the glass doors, with the café staff gawking at her from behind the pastry counter.

  ‘You saw him,’ she sobbed at the waiters. ‘He was at the table with me. Tell them.’

  The two waiters shrugged.

  ‘You have to tell them. He was drinking hot chocolate.’

  Nora was shoved into the back of a police van and strapped into a seat harness, her hands cuffed on her lap.

  ‘Wait! This is a terrible mistake,’ she cried. ‘I never meant to hurt them. It was his idea… he paid me to watch the paintings.’

  The steel doors slammed on her words. She flopped as far forward as the seat harness allowed and tears burst from her in gulping waves.

  She heard the melody first. The flutes. The caressing thrum of a cello. Oh Jesus, Jesus, she thought helplessly to herself, what’s happening to me? Her heart thumped. Her pulse raced. Then her blood pressure spiked and she burst into flames.

  THIRD MOVEMENT

  ‘And Behold the Watchers shall rise

  from whence they are bound.’

  Book of Songs

  39.

  IN THE JUNGLE

  Sotto Square was heading north on Michigan Avenue in front of the Art Institute of Chicago in his grandmother’s pristine 1979 Cadillac Fleetwood. He was cruising slowly. It was two in the morning in Chicago’s Gold Coast, and traffic was thin, but Sotto wasn’t in a rush. The last train had trundled beneath Michigan Avenue ten minutes ago, and most of the bars and clubs in the central loop were closed or closing. Clusters of men and women waited at the bus stops along Michigan Avenue, and in the distance, the DuSable Bridge over the Chicago River was up, yellow lights flashing.