Authors: Nic Widhalm
Mika’il had never been a creature of moods. She had spent eternity as a stoic, silent presence, preferring to lead by example rather than words. But ever since she had taken on this ridiculous flesh and begun the process the Grigori laid out—a process she never thought she would have to endure—she found herself succumbing more and more to human deficiencies. When she’d learned that Hunter had vanished, that Hash had lost him for a second time, well…her storied calm had disappeared. It would take Phaleg hours to put his office back in shape.
Behind her the door swung shut, and thick, dark silence descended on the room. Mika’il took a long breath, and felt her back unkink, her shoulder’s relax. The Power had thrown off her equilibrium more than once since joining the
Elohim
, but this time had been the worse. Leaving the fortress, leaving the family…
Something would have to be done.
Walking the length of her large, spartan room, Mika’il fell gracefully to her knees in front of a small shrine next to her bed. She let her breathing quicken, seeking the inner control she had mastered when she was two-years old.
Mika’il had known from birth she was more than a stunningly beautiful child; from the beginning she understood she had been chosen to do something great. The realization of what she was came on the morning of her second birthday, rocking her like a supernova. She didn’t just remember who she was—she
felt
it.
Her parents hadn’t known what to do with her. At first they tried to capitalize on her looks, but the casting directors and modeling agencies had all turned them down, reacting from an inborn and unconscious fear of what she was. There had always been legends of changelings, of vampires, of “others” that co-existed with humanity but were something
else.
Humanity’s
fear was as instinctual as ants discovering a mantis.
So instead, her parents tried take advantage of Mika’il’s—or Janice’s, as she had been known then—remarkable intellect. She had begun to speak when she was three months old. By nine months she was carrying on full conversations with her parents. At two she could read, and told her parents—quite truthfully—that Milton didn’t know what he was talking about. When Mika’il was three she wrote a concerto that would have made Mozart weep, and by four she had tired of the whole, sorry human experience and turned her attention to matters of the beyond.
It was then that she developed her little
trick
, took hold of her gifts, and began to actively shape the world.
Now, her knees pressed against the hard wooden floor, she let her eyelids droop until they were almost closed and set her mind free. Mika’il’s breathing quickened, her chest fluttering quick and shallow until the Seraphim sounded like an over-heated dog. Behind the slits of her lids her eyes began to flicker. Her mind, free of the constraints of heart, bone, and blood, soared around the room, expanding her consciousness to every pore of the ancient stone fortress. Mika’il could feel the icy outer walls, still slick from that afternoon’s snowstorm. She could sense the occupants, her fellow
Elohim
walking the halls and corridors. She breathed it in, in quick, sharp pants until she no longer sensed her human body.
Mika’il
was
the fortress.
The
Elohim
traveled her canals, her arteries, the lifeblood of her beating heart, and silently Mika’il
pulled
on them. Oblivious to her work, the Apkallu carried on their nightly rituals, sleeping, eating, spending what free time they had in games and gossip. Mika’il strung connecting webs around each of them, tying them together, forming one large knot with a string that ran to the center, ending at her sleeping chamber.
The fortress pulsed with their combined energy, and Mika’il soaked it in, luxuriating in the caress of power. It echoed through her halls, pulsing, almost visible from her ramparts. Mika’il knew it was beyond dangerous to hold it for even one more minute.
So she held it for two.
About her, Mika’il could sense the
Elohim’s
suspicion
. At the corners of their mind, barely conscious, hardly perceptible, the fortress vibrated. The home they had occupied for years beyond counting was shivering beneath their feet, shaking in small, imperceptible degrees that affected each of them differently. Some grew nauseous, others wild around the eyes. Those older, more experienced Apkallu knew this wasn’t the first time the fortress had gone through this strange metamorphosis, though they couldn’t have said what it augured. Hash, had he been present this night, might have told them—but he was gone.
Mika’il grit her teeth, aware of the
Elohim’s
discomfort, but she couldn’t afford to pay it any attention. It was all she could do to stay sane
as the energy of the combined Apkallu roared and twisted through her halls. It had gathered to alarming, almost catastrophic levels. It was almost enough.
And then, when the denizens of the castle had all realized something wasn’t just amiss, but absolutely, definitely
wrong
, Mika’il threw back her stone head, raised her iron voice, and screamed silently into the night. The power flooded through the ancient brick walls, soared passed the towers, and disappeared into the cold, dispassionate night.
Mika’il opened her eyes and raised her head to the small table next to her bed. On it were several sheaves of parchment, long, slender bits of black charcoal and several candles. She waited silently, her breathing returning to normal, and stared intently at the unlit candles.
Then, soundlessly, the wicks caught flame and the candles burst alight. Mika’il let a small smile reach her lips, and watched as the charcoal rolled across the table to land against the parchment. Lifting itself, it began to scratch quick, sharp hatches across the thick paper.
Why did you call to me?
“The time has arrived. It’s…sooner than we expected. He’s already fled.”
The charcoal waited a moment, then scratched,
How soon will he act?
“Less than a year,” Mika’il said confidently. She still didn’t know if they could hear her physical voice in the beyond, or if it was some kind of mental projection. Either way, it was vital to maintain a strong front.
Hold up your side of the bargain,
the slim pencil wrote.
And you’ll have my assistance.
“I have always acted in good faith; it is hardly
my
actions you need worry about. I would focus on your own pledge. Without it, the situation with the Power could get… irksome.”
The charcoal dropped to the paper and Mika’il’s eyes flashed with anger.
How dare he!
But before she could lash out, the pencil lifted again and began to write.
I have communicated my desires,
it wrote.
It will be as we discussed. Your people must allow him to contact the Order. They will lead him to the Sword.
Mika’il repressed the sudden urge to grab the charcoal stick and snap it in two. In a calm voice she said, “I’ll uphold my side of the bargain.”
Then we have nothing more to discuss
, the charcoal wrote, and then, as if it—or the power that moved it—had read her mind, the stick snapped in two.
“Drama queen,” Mika’il muttered, but her connection with the beyond had ended and her words fell unheard. She stood and crossed to the far side of her room, laying her hand gently on a small wooden box nestled atop her boudoir.
The box was a simple design; its warm, cherry wood ran unbroken down each side until Mika’il pressed a hidden button and the top sprung open with a click. Looking down, her smile reappeared. Her enemies had many advantages in these last, dying days, but there was still something in Mika’il’s favor. Something she had planned and waited for since she was four-years-old. Now, gazing at her treasure in perfect silence, her smile grew, sliding up her cheeks and touching her eyes for the first time.
She began to plan.
Part Three
AWAKENING
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hunter watched out the window as the plane began its descent, marveling as the tiny, ancient buildings of Jerusalem grew in size. There, peeking in the distance, almost beyond the curve of the window, was the blue dome marking the Church of the Holy Sepulcher—the place of Christ’s crucifixion. Beyond that, the tiny rows of white rock marking the Mount of Olives. All places Hunter had seen and read about in movies and magazines, but never thought he’d visit.
His smile widened.
Next to him Jackie sighed, and Hunter’s smile fell a degree. She had been like this most of the flight. Hunter had sworn he wouldn’t let it get to him, but he was having a tough time ignoring her. Hash had told him that his natural effect on humans would wear off now that he was channeling his gift. That humanity’s instinctive distrust of Apkallu faded once the angel accepted their true heritage. But Jackie had been sulking for hours now, and Hunter didn’t know if it was because of him or the priest.
He had spent the first part of the ten hour flight attempting to learn about the detective. She had been reluctant to talk about her past at first, but opened up when Hunter asked about the last month. She explained how she and Valdis had first met with Bath. How Valdis had contacted the Cherubim—something the priest refused to elaborate on, beyond a simple, “I have connections,”—and how the
Adonai
agreed to help spring Hunter. When he asked how Hash and his group of
Elohim
soldiers had known where to find Hunter, Valdis told him about an anonymous tip the priest had left behind at the castle. But beyond that, the priest remained silent.
By hour four the detective looked like she was going to strangle Valdis.
It had begun when Jackie raised the question Hunter had been afraid to ask: what were they going to do once they arrived in Jerusalem? Valdis, with his habit of annoyingly cryptic answers, said, “You’ll see,” which launched Jackie into a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.
At first, Hunter had tried to pacify the situation. “Come on, Father,” he’d said. “We’re in this together. We’ve been good sports,” Hunter motioned at Jackie who was seated next to him, arms crossed. “The detective even got your bag of goodies. You’ve got to give us
something.
”
Valdis had sighed and rubbed his eyes—it had been over thirty hours since any of them had slept. “Hunter, some of these cards I have to keep close to my chest. For your
and
Ms. Riese’s
protection.”
“I’m still a detective,” Jackie had muttered, but Valdis ignored her.
“You’ll just have to trust me. And remember that while you both have been dealing with your
discoveries
for the past month,
I
have been dealing with them for over twenty years. In this case, experience and maturity trump youth and vigor.” And the priest had closed his eyes with a satisfied smile, refusing to say another word.
Now, the sun falling over the low hills and sandy plains, Hunter closed his eyes for a moment and dreamed. He tried to imagine what they would find in this city of ruins, this city of disparate beliefs, this city of war and blood and battle.
He felt like he was going to Disney World.
“We’re lost, aren’t we?” Jackie asked.
“No. I mean…well…” Valdis shook his head, then sighed. “Yeah. Probably.”
They had been climbing through the crowded streets and thin alleys of the hot, dusty city for four hours. With night descending and the three still suffering from emotional, physical, and spiritual jet lag, Jackie was having her doubts about the entire enterprise.
She’d had her suspicions from the moment they had stepped out of the plane. Valdis had looked around, exited the airport, then gazed into the horizon for several minutes before meandering off into the city. He’d ignored the taxis, and shot hostile glances at the guides yelling at him in different languages. Refusing to tell them what they were doing, or even letting them check into a hotel to stash their bags, the priest had led them onward, through the switchbacks and false roads that dotted the Christian Quarter, and later the broken steps and shadowed back-corners of the Armenian Quarter. He’d walked with purpose, leading them without hesitation. At least for the first two hours. The last two had been an excruciating combination of culture shock and frayed nerves.
Jackie and Valdis had bickered back and forth as the priest forced them down random alleys and dirt packed roads. Hunter had stayed silent, his eyes large and bright as they navigated Jerusalem.
Finally, calves soar and the beginnings of a blister on her heel, Jackie stopped in the middle of a narrow street. “That’s
it
. I’m not taking one more step.
Come on, Hunter,” she said. “Let’s find a hotel and get some sleep. If the
priest
,” she bit the word, “wants to keep chasing his wild goose, let him. I’ve eaten enough dust today.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,
Detective
,” Valdis said, eyes narrowing.
“You’ve nothing on me, father. The money is mine, and so are the passports. I’ve let you call the shots ‘cause I thought you knew what you were doing. I was obviously wrong.”