The Paladin's Message (The Keepers of White Book 2)

by Richard Crofton

  The man hesitated. “Neither of us do. In a way, I’m kidnapping you for both of our sakes.”

  She looked away. “Yeah. That makes me feel real safe with you. You’re only protecting me to protect yourself.”

  He breathed a sigh of defeat. “I can get you to safety. They have unlimited resources, but I have a network as well. We can have you relocated with a new surname and all the documents to prove it. I’ve changed my last name a few times over the years to avoid being discovered. We can set you up with a new life Megan.” She didn’t respond, nor did she commit to taking the drink. The man lifted his palms as if to say I give up. “Logically, if I only wanted to protect myself, I would have to kill you. That would be easiest if you think about it.”

  She looked back at him. “You really know how to sweet talk a lady, don’t you?”

  Now he looked away. “Actually, I do. Persuasion is one of my gifts. I used it on a pretty girl earlier today to get into Professor Madsen’s office. But that was work. I don’t really know the right things to say… when it’s just me being me.”

  “Why don’t you then?”

  He returned his eyes to meet hers. “What?”

  “Kill me,” she said with no apparent worry. “Tell me, you being you. If killing me would be easiest, then why don’t you?”

  The man tried to smile. “Do you believe in God?”

  She raised an eyebrow but decided to humor him. “I don’t know. I did… all my life. I’m Catholic. After tonight…” she trailed off, unsure how to answer.

  “I’m Catholic too,” he replied. “Don’t consider Father Paul any representation of your religion. He wasn’t really ordained, nor is the church evil. I believe in God, Megan. Despite everything. If I were to kill you… well… I would have to answer for that.”

  “You won’t kill me because you don’t want to go to hell,” she said venomously. “Protecting yourself still.” She knew she was being unnecessarily difficult with him. Deep inside she truly believed he would help her. But she supposed her extensive feeling of powerlessness was causing her to lash out any way she could; pent up anger from all the damage she had to sustain. It was just another way of letting everything out after enduring the role of the victim for so long.

  The man fell silent, looking down again at the pot. “The broth is cooling,” he quietly stated finally. “The paste on your wounds will only heal them at the surface. If you want to avoid infection or permanent damage, you’ll drink.”

  Reluctantly, Megan took tiny sips with the spork, forcing the contents down and trying hard to ignore the bitterness. The man watched her for a moment, then rose from his position and walked away. Her eyes followed him, and she watched as he started dragging the lifeless bodies in their dark robes into the other room, one at a time. After several grueling sips, she took a quick break by stirring the mixture with the utensil. “So, what name do you go by now?” she called to him as he worked. “Or are you going to have to change it again after tonight?”

  “Dawkins,” he answered with an exertion of heavy breaths as he pulled the obese woman who once managed Maybel’s. “Michael Dawkins.”

  Not easily becoming accustomed to the spork, she lifted the pot to her lips and blew gently on the broth, willing herself not to gag from the harsh taste after taking a larger sip. “Michael,” she repeated. “It suits you better than ‘Cliff’ I guess.” And you’re much better to look at without the hobo disguise and scruffy face. She couldn’t help the thought from popping into her mind. Then, embarrassed that he might still have what he called a bit of a connection with her, she tried to keep up with conversation: “Is Michael your real first name, or did you ever have to change that too?”

  “It’s my real name.”

  “Do you prefer ‘Michael,’ or do you go by ‘Mike,’ ‘Mikey,’ or…”

  “For someone who’s been traumatized for two weeks, you sure talk a lot.”

  “Maybe talking is my psychological self-defense mechanism to help me block it all out.” She took a few more sips.

  “I’ve always gone by just ‘Michael.’”

  “And your real last name? Can you tell me that, or would you have to risk facing divine judgment and kill me?”

  “Maybe we can save the questions for later?” he answered with a slight but noticeable sting in his voice. “I said I would explain everything once we’re safe.”

  “From my point of view, I’m not safe now or later.” She almost regretted those last two comments, and she felt a change in her expression that might reveal that she didn’t truly mean to speak to him so unkindly. So, she decided to hide it by taking a much larger mouthful of the godawful potion, which forced all of her facial muscles to clench and cringe as she gulped it down.

  Saying nothing in response, the man… Michael continued his task at hand.

  “Why are you moving them in there?” she asked strangely afraid that he might wander too far from her. Despite the hard front she was putting on, the recollection of all her suffering reminded her that the last thing she wanted right now was to be left alone.

  “They’ll burn more thoroughly inside the wooden structure than in here.”

  “Lovely,” she commented cynically and forced down more broth. She tried to envision her mother’s chicken noodle soup, but it did little to alleviate the bitter taste.

  Before long, the itching sensation that the man warned her of began to set in, but she favored that over the deep pain it had replaced. And the hoarseness in her voice had mostly diminished.

  After several unbearable minutes, she finally finished the last of the unknown potion. Two minutes later, Michael returned to her, and to her wonder with a saddened look on his face. “All done?”

  She nodded and showed him the empty pot, mockingly making the face of a little girl showing her parents how good she was by eating all of her yucky supper. “So, is this the part where you kidnap me?”

  He held out his hand to her. “Almost,” he answered. “Can you try to stand now? Let me know if you feel dizzy when you do.”

  She took his hand, and he helped her to her feet. He maintained a grip of her hand in his in case she lost her balance, but with no support so she could determine on her own if she was alright. After a few seconds, she shook her head. “I’m good.”

  “Okay,” he exhaled with relief, but did not loosen his grip on her hand.

  She looked down at her hand in his, then back up at him. “I’m not going to try to run,” she admitted.

  “I know,” he replied, “but there’s something I’m going to try to make clear.”

  “Um… okay…” she responded as if she was purposefully implying to him that he was acting weird, as if things aren’t already weird.

  “Let’s say God doesn’t exist, Megan. There’s no heaven or hell. After all, there’s no proof, so I’m going to forego faith and just go with what I know.”

  She began to feel even more uncomfortable. Here came the awkward confrontation. The attempts to clear the air, reminding her of her hurtful words and instilling guilt in her already regretting conscience. “Listen,” she tried to ward him off, “I’m sorry for what I…”

  “I have to protect you Megan,” he went on, cutting her off. “Even if God doesn’t exist. And maybe a part of me is doing it for myself, but not to protect myself. I have to protect you because I can protect you. If I don’t, then what’s the point of my having the skills to do so? What’s the point of my existence if I don’t protect you? I don’t think I could look at myself in a mirror if I refused to do what I’m capable of doing, any more than a doctor could if he willingly refused to save a dying patient.”

  He was speaking very slowly and softly, as if finding the words exhausted him. “Michael,” she again made the attempt to stop him, “you don’t have to explain any…”

  “You can call it selfish. Maybe it is a little bit. But I have to protect you because I couldn’t protect the four women who were sacrificed before you. I didn’t have enough informa
tion to find them before it was too late.”

  Megan looked at him with uncertainty. There was both power and sadness in his eyes, but also a captivating brilliance, like an energy that flowed from them, igniting the rest of his body, transferring from his hand into hers. She swore she could feel it as she was somehow drawn to him. This energy he seemed to share with her as her hand remained in his comforted her, and for a split second she imagined they were connected by a common force that she never understood, but always suspected to exist.

  “My true name is Michael Messenger,” he stated with a steadier voice than before. “I’m one of few remaining active members dedicated to a secret society known as the Order of White. We who follow this order are known as Keepers of White, although to the rest of the world we’re unknown. We’ve been running underground operations for many centuries. One of our priorities: protecting the innocent at all costs. Whether you trust me or not, I will protect you. I have to, Megan,” he repeated, “because it’s my sworn duty. And because,” his voice lowered back to the tone of soft sadness, “I couldn’t protect...”

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Suddenly, she found herself holding back a lump in her throat as she recalled his standoff with her captors, reminding them of the message he had received from them. There was no need to ask who he tried to refer to, and all the emotions she didn’t want; remorse, pity, and shame, suddenly filled her heart.

  This was not him trying to persuade her to trust him. This was him being him. She had to endure unspeakable torment during the past two weeks, the deep deception and betrayal from Father Paul and Sonny, the grief of losing her best friend, the humiliation of being controlled, being a toy for Dr. Palmer to play with, and finally laying helpless and naked while surrounded by sadistic cultists who worked to torture and murder her. She believed that no one, other than the other victims, could even begin to fathom how she suffered. But she knew now that she couldn’t understand this man’s suffering, whatever it was, any more than he could understand hers.

  But they shared in their suffering nonetheless. In different ways, they had both been scarred by the same dark cult of powerful men and women. Survivors of an assault from which complete recovery was impossible. They would both spend a long time, perhaps the rest of their days, picking up the pieces of their lives that would never be the same again.

  Megan’s expression of doubt and unsureness was replaced by one of sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry too,” he whispered back.

  Sorry for what? She didn’t fully understand, but she didn’t feel the need to ask. Her faith had been more than tested this night, but she was ready to put her faith in him, now that she understood him, this man who’d fought through a dozen bloodthirsty cultists to save her. Regardless of his motive for interfering with their ungodly ritual, the end result was, he saved her nevertheless, and for that she at least owed him her cooperation. Though she was physically and mentally fatigued, a newfound energy, perhaps brought on by the healing broth she had forced into her gullet, began to set in.

  “What do you need me to do?” she asked.

  Michael straightened himself erect, ready to get back to work. “There are four more cans of gasoline in that storage space. Can you help me carry them to the other room? Seeing as how you were kept prisoner there, I’m guessing you don’t have any objection to setting it on fire?”

  Megan’s eyes narrowed. “None at all,” she affirmed.

  Chapter XX

  Megan followed her rescuer into the storage room where, as he had said, four remaining gas cans remained. He grabbed two in each hand, and she did the same. But before she followed him out, she turned around to examine the small space. Wooden shelving lined the stone walls where boxes lay open. Some were filled with more of the black candles, some with unused robes. There was nothing else that caught her eye, but she emerged from the room with a perplexed expression.

  “What’s the matter?” Michael asked as he turned toward her, noticing that she was no longer right behind him.

  “Professor Madsen,” she answered. “He ran into that room during the shooting.”

  Michael nodded. “The woman too.”

  “Dr. Palmer?” she said with a frightful tone. “They never came back out. There’s no other exit from that room!”

  “No, there isn’t” he agreed.

  “Then how did they escape?”

  Michael turned back and continued walking toward the room that was her prison. “They teleported,” he answered simply.

  Megan picked up her feet and hurried after him. “They what? Are you serious?”

  He placed the two cans on the floor next to the corner with the pile of her dead captors. When she caught up to him, deliberately straining not to focus on the corpses, he took her cans and placed them beside the others. “They’re both powerful agents,” he finally explained.

  She was too shocked with disbelief to formulate any questions that might prompt clarification from him. The night was only getting stranger by the minute.

  “I think it’s best if I take care of this area,” he commented. “Could you pour the gasoline from the other six cans and douse the altar room? Start at the back and work your way toward me?”

  For a moment she stood still, unable to shake the dumbfounded feeling. But by watching him pour his own cans on the bodies and splashing what he could against the wooden walls, she finally turned and went to do her part.

  “Be very careful not to knock any candles over,” he warned as if not willing to speak further on the topic.

  A couple of minutes after she set to work, she replayed the moment in her mind when she witnessed Palmer and Madsen escape into the storage room, trying to accept in her mind that they could simply disappear into thin air, even though she had seen these strange men and women perform other unbelievable acts firsthand. Honestly, she hadn’t fully accepted any of it, even the inexplicable enchantments they used specifically on her. When she reflected on those, she said aloud, “It’s a shame you didn’t get a chance to kill them before they escaped.” She referred to both, but her words were really meant for Diana Palmer.

  “Well,” Michael replied, speaking loudly enough that she could hear him from the adjacent room, “I let Professor Madsen go.”

  “What?” she blurted out with surprise. “Why?”

  He paused momentarily. “I’m not done with him. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Megan decided not to pursue the matter further. She was left to suspect that Michael and Professor Madsen had a history together, based on their conversation about Gettysburg. Whatever that was about, she supposed that Michael had a score to settle. Plain and simple.

  “The woman,” he began again, “Dr. Palmer… that didn’t go as I’d hoped.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had her in my sights,” Michael answered. “I used up more than half a magazine on her… took many shots. Every one of them missed.”

  Megan paused from her task for a second as she considered what he had just said. “That’s bad,” she assumed.

  “That’s very bad,” he agreed. “I rarely miss. I’ve hit smaller and faster targets from a much greater distance… easily. I’m not bragging; it’s one of my… gifts. But Palmer; she could somehow dodge my shots, like the priest did. That eats up a lot of power to do something like that. But she still had enough in her to teleport afterwards.”

  “You mean… there’s a limit to what they can do?”

  “Yeah. Everything has a limit, even the speed of light. After I wounded Father Paul, he didn’t teleport out of here because he had already used up too much of his power when he made his body transparent.”

  “You’re saying they can all teleport?”

  “No, but the priest, Madsen, and Palmer were part of what they call the Primary Circle. Most of what you saw tonight was high level stuff. Only obtained by the most powerful. Still has its limits though.”

  Megan’s head was
spinning. Never in her life had she even dreamed about having a conversation half as absurd as this one. She decided to go back to the task at hand to keep her mind too occupied to try to reason everything out and risk having a brain aneurism. “Can anyone even move that fast? To dodge bullets, I mean?”

  Michael didn’t respond at first. She thought perhaps he was wondering if it was possible himself. Finally, he answered; “It’s not really dodging bullets. It’s more like being able to move milliseconds before the gun is fired. Knowing when to move.” He trailed off for a moment, then finished his thought; “That woman’s dangerous…”

  “So what are you going to do?” she asked worriedly.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’ll need time to think.”

  At this point, Megan had used up all of the gasoline. She hadn’t had enough left to reach the other end of the room, as she was sure to apply an excessive amount to the altar itself. So, she dropped the last empty can where she stood and exited to where he was waiting for her.

  He nodded to her, letting her know everything was ready. “It’s probably best if we stand back by the stairwell down the corridor while I get the fire started. Just in case either of us spilled any gasoline on our clothes.”

  “Michael,” she said, not moving from her spot, “can you please tell me how? I mean, how can they do these things? How can you? What are these powers and gifts? How is any of it even possible?”

  He looked at her and offered a wry smile. “That’s actually the simplest part to explain. That is, once you’re able to accept the truth of its existence.”

  “The existence of what?”

  Michael winked at her. “Magic, darlin’. It’s all the study and practice of magic.”

  The astonished look returned to her face; she wasn’t sure it had ever left. “You mean, you’re all wizards?”

  His smile transformed into a bit of a light-hearted grimace. “Uh… no. At least we don’t refer to ourselves by that term. We don’t carry wands or staves. No one wears a pointy hat. No lightning bolt shaped scar on my head or anything like that. It’s a lot to explain, but that’ll have to wait until later. We’ve been here long enough.” He then moved through the doorway he had broken through earlier, and picked up one of the black candles, still lit, and still mounted in its iron holder on a shelf.