Perilous Prophecy

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “How do you know our names?” Ibrahim asked, his tone careful.

  “Because you are my beloveds. The Muses, my eldest friends, chose you to join with my love to fight hungry Darkness, who would blanket the Earth with his miserable, restless dead. I will help you in return.” She gazed kindly at Ibrahim. “You, Ibrahim, are Intuition. You will be the first to feel the Pull, the exact point of each spiritual disturbance. You are your Leader’s right hand. Your clarion voice, and your strength, will be critical in the fight.”

  Ibrahim turned toward Beatrice, his face blank. He was withholding both judgment and, she couldn’t help but feel, acceptance.

  “You, George, are the Artist. Evil won’t acknowledge the importance of art. Make it.”

  George opened his mouth, blushed again, and closed it.

  “Belle.” Persephone turned to the round-cheeked girl, speaking now in French, though all seemed able to understand. “You are the Memory. Our mentalist. You will alter the recollections of those affected by malevolent spirits. You will turn the innocent away from poltergeists and terrors they ought not see, wipe their minds with but a wish. You shall find that you can see each past with but a touch, and that your will can work wonders upon others. You allow your fellows to move more easily through this world. Take care with this gift.”

  The young Frenchwoman nodded, a host of varied emotions playing over her face.

  “How long are we in your service?” Ibrahim asked cautiously.

  “You’re not in my service. You are in the service of mortality, in the service of all life triumphant over death. You are soldiers of this world against the onslaught of the next, and you will be soldiers until the Muses decide to release you.” The divinity’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if she’d said these words many times before.

  “What if we refuse service?” Beatrice asked out of curiosity. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Ibrahim’s lips twitched, either disturbed or heartened by her boldness; she couldn’t guess which.

  Persephone smiled. “Would you rather answer to him?” With a violent gesture, she ripped open the portal again. Those terrible eyes, the weighty dread, the utter, soul-sapping misery, incapacitating despair, and helplessness of that realm. Nightmare walked there. Nightmare was born there … No! No, she did not want to answer to that.

  “That’s enough,” Beatrice said, seeing how her companions—save Ibrahim—quailed.

  Persephone closed the portal with a fluid gesture, satisfaction on her face. “Then go forth. You’ll know when you’re needed. And you can return to this sacred space—known only to you, made only for you—to renew your flagging spirits. Bless you for your work. This world needs you. Otherwise Darkness will take over, city by city, land by land. If his minions are not checked … Believe me, none of us want that fate.”

  Ibrahim glanced uncomfortably at Beatrice, but his words were directed to them all. “There is an oath upon my lips; I feel a burning need to speak it. I assume it cannot be undone. It may bind us eternally to these forces within. I do not know if we have a choice in this destiny, or what that destiny entails, so I’ll not say this oath if any here object.”

  “You are wise, Intuition,” Persephone murmured after the walls had finished translating his words. “Sensible and measured, you should rightly ask such questions of those who serve with you. And of those who command you. Your minds and hearts shall be sorely taxed, and so you must understand why.” She made her way to the center of the sacred space, onto a spot where a great feather carved in the floor reflected her colors. “Let me show you how the Great Vendetta began.”

  She opened her palms wide. Suddenly the six saw through her eyes, and felt with her heart, more powerfully than all human hearts combined. She showed them her history, channeling it from her soul into theirs. Darkness was guilty of vile, unforgivable deeds indeed, and they could help keep him in his place. They would join this sacred fight.

  When the vision faded, Beatrice and her companions wept.

  Persephone wept as well, her tears liquid silver that fell and merged with the blue fire that threaded the floor. Flame and sorrow seeped into the stones, making the place more luminous and full of resolve. This sacred space was built by tears, perhaps. Beatrice could imagine nothing else.

  The goddess walked among them once more. “Fire, light, and love shall fight against shadow, despair, and eternal restlessness. We can never eliminate the enemy wholly, for misery clings stubbornly to the human soul. But we can keep the Balance, perhaps even tip it to just this side of the light. To let Darkness tip the scales is to lose every last mortal mind. So take to your duty, please, and wield the powers we have given you. Do so for all of your kind.”

  “Say the oath of the Guard, Mr. Wasil. Please,” Beatrice murmured. “I doubt any of us has the capability to walk away.”

  Ibrahim cleared his throat. His words were choked. “Wasil-Tipton. Ibrahim Wasil-Tipton.”

  Beatrice cocked her head. “I’m sorry?”

  “James Tipton was not my birth father, but he took me in and raised me well. Before I came here, I was wondering who I should be. Now I know. I shall take his name, for he was a good and honorable man. As I make an oath to fight on the side of angels, I do so in the name of a man of faith who died today.” Ibrahim turned to the goddess, and his face was that of one who had seen great loss. “He, too, died in fire. Unfairly.”

  “But you, my beloved, were spared,” the goddess said.

  The others were nodding in empathy, and she turned to them. “All of you were chosen for a reason your Muses know more than I. Some of you would not have lived had you not been chosen. Some of you would have lived much different lives.” She glanced at Beatrice, her face grave. “Some of you asked for there to be more, and I hope you remember that. For what the Grand Work demands of you, you must give. But now I must go. As deeply as I regret it, the Whisper-world of Darkness has its hooks in me, and to struggle is to prolong my agony.”

  Ahmed spoke, using a mixture of Arabic and a new tongue that they all recognized as intrinsically their own, a language of friends, the language of the Guard. “And you—why do you not choose a human host and join the fight? If the Muses did so, couldn’t you? Would you not then be free?”

  A pained look crossed the divinity’s face. “Ah! You, great Heart, you feel mine. You feel how I ache to love again, to be held again. But for me to come here … it would not be the same as the Muses. I’ve never been mortal, and I’m terrified of it.”

  Her sad face brightened in a disconcerting reversal and she continued, “We have fought Darkness for so long, and always in the same way, but … we have begun a new age. A gilded one. It may be time to move against Darkness at last. Who can tell? There have been odd shifts in the Liminal space from where I joined you.

  “Be well, beloveds,” she continued sweetly. “Call upon the Power and the Light to aid you. I shall return; yet until then, you must fight on your own.”

  She opened her palm. The inky maw of that shadowed, whispering world opened once more; murmurs of pain from thousands of years sent shivers down Beatrice’s spine. Goodness, did she really live in that hellish pit? It was clear she did not want to return to it.

  Persephone turned her head and coughed as demurely as she could, but a spot of red dribbled from the corner of her lip. Blood? Was she ill? The goddess turned again, suddenly earnest, her face that of an excited child as she addressed her newfound friends. Yes, it was blood on her lip. That drop fell to the stone floor, where it vanished, but when she took a deep breath, the Guard heard her lungs rattle.

  “You’ll forgive me, won’t you? You’ll allow me a moment of beauty before I go back?” she begged, then gave an odd, off-balance laugh. “I shouldn’t, time ticks and so does Darkness. But to walk the streets among you dear human beings, to feel the pulse of the Earth, how its vibrancy sustains me … How I love you mortals and the marvels you create! I’ll go and look upon something grand, something awe inspiring, before I turn my
face to shadow once more.”

  She adjusted the layers of shining garments over her body and vanished.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Clearing his throat, Ibrahim began their newly discovered oath in the sacred space. Much like a call to prayer, it was clarion and regal: “In darkness; a door. In bound souls; a circle of fire. Immortal force in mortal hearts. Six to calm the restless dead. Six to shield the restless living.”

  “The Power and the Light,” Beatrice murmured.

  “The Power and the Light!” her new fellows chorused.

  No, Beatrice, she urged herself. Say it like a Leader.

  “The Power and the Light!” she cried, and felt the whole of her body surge with pleasure and power, as if the phoenix above warmed her with the hearth in its wings. There came a formidable result: Cerulean fire rose around them, leaping from the floor to burst high into the air. Chords of heavenly music tuned by stars roared in their ears, and the hearts of the six burned hot and intense; there was no other moment in the world but this, no other force, no other reason for living.

  It was a delirious, beautiful sensibility that Beatrice didn’t want to end. It was a moment that defined and defied existence, as close as she would come to heaven without dying. In this fire, by this light, they had become demigods. They would walk this land of Isis and Osiris, among the sands of ancients, banner bearers of the culture’s ancient gods. They were being reborn here, and with them, Phoenix. Once more an old mythology was being made new. In their image. In their blood. In their hearts. For all that she was still Beatrice Smith, she was also far more. They all were.

  They bathed in the sort of warm light that banishes the darkest nights of the soul, and only guardians of time could know how long they stood drinking in this ambrosia. When at last the symphony of stars hushed to a whisper, when the column of celestial light faded and the sacred space became hazy blue-gray again, when the stained-glass bird was only dimly luminescent, not ablaze like a sun, they all stared at one another.

  “That was right bloody incredible,” George exclaimed.

  Ahmed laughed, which gave all of them permission to join in. There was really nothing else to be done. In indescribable wonder, a strange family had been born.

  Belle addressed them, her voice tremulous but clear, bringing them back to reality. “We’ll need to go to our families one by one. We’re not likely companions, so we need to make introductions. Moreover, we need to be able to come and go as we please. My gift urges me to make us transparent to those we love: We must become ghosts in our own lives so that the Grand Work is never undermined by the particulars of mortal life. It … it will not be easy.”

  As each offered the location of his or her home, Beatrice began sorting out an order in which to visit.

  Ibrahim was the last to speak. “I’ve nowhere to go,” he said in softly accented English. “As I told you before. My house burned down this morning, and the man who raised me died in the fire. I have no one else.”

  Beatrice felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. “Of course, I’m sorry.” They were fellows in loss. Fresh loss.

  When he stepped away from the group, deflecting all pity, Beatrice couldn’t help moving forward and speaking for his ears alone. “I lost the man courting me this morning. This very morning. We are brother and sister in loss, Ibrahim Wasil-Tipton,” she stated.

  Ibrahim stared at her. “We are not related,” he replied coolly. She could tell he did not intend to be rude; he was simply stating fact. “We cannot truly know how each other feels. Despite what’s happened here, hearts are too private, too individual. Do not assume.”

  Beatrice was stung. She straightened her shoulders and turned to walk away, almost colliding with Ahmed, who had approached them from behind.

  “Ibrahim, our family has a spare room. I know they would gladly take you in, and Belle’s powers can assure it. What say you, brother?”

  Ibrahim nodded. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Beatrice bristled at the warmth in Ibrahim’s eyes. Ahmed, with that shining, engaging face that could warm the coldest stone, he could call Ibrahim brother and she could not. Why? Perhaps because she was a woman and not of his people. She was of the invaders’ ilk, and female; even supernatural circumstances could not change that. Why, then, of all people, did he have to be her second-in-command? Why was she Leader? Such a pairing seemed ill suited.

  The group was quiet as they traversed the city that afternoon, making dutiful stops. First came the stately rooms where Belle had been raised as an only child, and the dazed, comely matron who was her mother.

  “Bonjour, Maman—et au revoir,” the French girl said softly, tears streaming down her face. The others stood in the doorway, watching. Belle shook badly until Verena stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. Then Belle spoke with mounting confidence. There was an aura of light about her. Magic was at hand.

  “These are my friends, and I have a new purpose. I shall come and go as I please. As will these friends. We here obey new masters, not those of our respective households. We will do the Grand Work without question. You will not stop us.”

  “Of course, daughter,” Mrs. Montmare agreed, her eyes fluttering under the weight of magic being worked. “None shall stand in your way.”

  In Ahmed’s family’s simple, tidy flat, the conversation was much the same, though Ahmed added the introduction of Ibrahim. He was greeted with polite distance and an invitation to stay. Ibrahim’s face was emotionless, but he bowed and thanked the elder Basris with what Beatrice recognized as genuine sincerity.

  Ahmed’s father was not at home, having gone to the mosque for a meeting with his Sufi teacher that Ahmed should also have attended. Now each of the Guard had a new faith and claim upon them in addition to their old beliefs, and each would have to find his or her own ways of balancing that claim with the others.

  En route to George’s home, which was farther south, Beatrice, still feeling a bit disjointed and rebuffed, determined that as Leader it was her duty to rise above any personal affront. In order to coordinate her new battalion, she needed to know the various needs of each member.

  “Mr. Wasil-Tipton,” she began. “Do you imagine there will be services for your father? Would you like us to arrange something? Is there a way we may be of help?”

  The group paused, not wanting to seem insensitive. Who could be sure what Ibrahim was thinking, other than perhaps Ahmed with his new talents? His face was like a mask.

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” Ibrahim replied. “The university will likely have a memorial. But truly, with this odd destiny, I don’t believe I shall go. If I’m thought dead, it is better I remain so. All of you, look what we’re doing here. You’re all becoming ghosts to your families. So shall I be to the world.”

  They all reflected on his words. This single day had aged them all by years.

  They began again down the street. As they did, Verena hurried to catch the tall Beatrice, whose long strides made it difficult. “And your … companion? What of him? Can we do something for you? For him?”

  Beatrice felt all eyes upon her. She choked back a wave of tears, grief just under the surface but recently supplanted by fear, power, wonder—at leadership, at their new language—and myriad other sensations. “No, I … I’m sure Jean’s family will take care of … I don’t want to see the body again. I witnessed his ghost move on. That will suffice. No one knew we were together today, and I daresay he was prone enough to trouble that his death mightn’t be a complete surprise. Now, enough on that. George, how much farther?”

  “Another few streets,” George replied. “Just south of the square here.”

  It did not take long for Ibrahim’s stride, similarly long-legged, to bring him abreast of her. “I should have asked after you in turn,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “We’ve all had a trying day to say the least. We must forgive any unintended slights.”

  He evaluated her expression, se
emed satisfied that she meant her words, and fell back to walk beside Ahmed.

  Glancing back, Beatrice saw the Sufi take one look at him, murmur an Arabic benediction about grief, and place a hand over Ibrahim’s heart. She was surprised by Ibrahim’s reaction.

  “That’s wondrous,” the young man breathed. “Offer it to Miss Smith, too.”

  When Ahmed stepped forward, Beatrice accepted his gift. The young man’s jolt of heart-bound power enveloped her grief and lifted it free from her body. Beatrice could almost see it, could sense Ahmed gazing at it, as one might examine a captured dove. Then Ahmed set it free with open hands.

  “Thank you,” Beatrice breathed.

  “My pleasure,” Ahmed replied, and they all knew that was true.

  A fine residential complex housed the Tyler household; as they neared, George told them he had a brother, Bob. Meeting Bob, who was rather sour, Beatrice was glad George had been chosen. She also wondered if some distinct quality, of either leadership or independence, was more present in only children.

  “None shall stand in your way,” echoed George’s parents and brother, as had Ahmed’s and Belle’s mothers.

  In the cluttered and book-filled Smith home, Beatrice continued the formula, trembling as she spoke to her father.

  “These are my friends and we are called to a great purpose,” she said, trying to keep her voice level and strong. “We shall come and go as we please. All will be well.”

  Her dazed father simply nodded and returned to his desk, a wide wooden surface ever piled with papyrus, beads, and shards of clay.

  “Do you hear me, Father?” she asked, moving forward to clasp his hand. In that touch was the phoenix fire, to make her declaration permanent.

  “None shall stand in your way,” said Leonard Smith softly.

  Though the response was what she wanted, what she needed, it was unsettling, because she had always intuited her father would stand in her way, would oppose her desire for a career, would in time find her help at grave sites and in academia unladylike and demand she turn in her passions in exchange for trapped domesticity. While she had no doubt he loved her, she assumed that love was conditional. Now, apparently, her only conditions were those of the Grand Work.