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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Description

  SCROLL: Part One | THE MEMORY HOLE

  SAFFRON | THE WITCHING HOUR

  THE FIRST INCURSION

  THE ORDER OF ANGELS

  A WAYWARD WIND

  ASTRAL BODIES

  A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

  THE SEVEN SAGES

  A STRANGER ENCOUNTER

  FORTUNES WON AND LOST

  THE THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM

  AN UNEXPECTED DELAY

  A CULTURAL TOUR

  THE SECRET CHAMBER

  A BOX AT THE OPERA

  CITY OF BONES

  THE BLACK STONE

  WANT MORE?

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Praise for Keepers of Genesis Series

  Acknowledgements

  BrixBaxter Publishing – Experience New Worlds

  Copyright

  SCROLL: Part One of the Keepers of Genesis Series

  Copyright © DB Nielsen 2017

  First published in Great Britain as a paperback and ebook by LBLA Digital in 2015

  Republished by BrixBaxter Publishing in 2017

  Cover Design by XLintellect Pty Ltd

  Photograph Copyright ©

  Tsiomashko Denis/Shutterstock.com;

  Noolwlee/Shutterstock.com;

  SvedOliver/Shutterstock.com;

  Captblack76/Shutterstock.com

  Cover Image Copyright © A. Brix-Nielsen / XLintellect Pty Ltd

  The right of DB Nielsen to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form, or with any binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locals is entirely coincidental.

  Description

  IDENTICAL TWIN SISTERS. POLES APART. LIGHT AND SHADOW. THEIR DESTINIES INTERLOCKED IN A QUEST THAT WILL DETERMINE THE FATE OF HUMANKIND...

  Seventeen-year-old Saffron Woods, twin sister to Sage, is haunted by strange voices as if from some distant past. With the SEED’s sentience awakened, these mystical voices intensify, forcing Saffron to acknowledge that she has also inherited its legacy of dark secrets, intrigue and death. Venturing out alone, Saffron is driven to locate an ancient manuscript, the other half of a Cosmic Map charting the location of the only undiscovered Wonder of the Ancient World, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon; gateway to the Garden of Eden. But last seen in the Library of Alexandria, the SCROLL is thought to be lost to humankind.

  Then Saffron meets the compelling caretaker of Satis House who appears to know more than he is willing to reveal. Knowing she cannot trust him, Saffron is still drawn to this rebellious boy who seems to both threaten and protect her. But her feelings for Finn are complicated by the charming yet inscrutable Anakim, Gabriel Chevalier, who offers her his invaluable assistance in locating the elusive manuscript.

  Torn between competing passions and facing an increasingly implacable enemy, the Grigori, Saffron struggles to find the SCROLL which holds the secrets to the past and the key to the future...

  SCROLL: Part One is the third book in the Keepers of Genesis Series

  SCROLL: Part One

  THE MEMORY HOLE

  PROLOGUE

  Sarajevo, August 1992

  A false dawn brilliantly illuminated the horizon, streaking it with crimson, leaving it a blood smear against the moonless night sky. Two days of relentless artillery fire had left an already besieged city labouring for breath as sunrise and sunset became one. Five months of being bombarded had taken its toll as Sarajevo’s remaining citizens were stricken with misery, exhaustion and starvation. They might have still been able to hold onto hope, waiting for the rest of the world to eventually come to their aid, but tonight’s events would quickly consume hope’s last shred as Neronian flames consumed the soul of their city.

  Amongst the devastation, in a derelict apartment block bearing the scars from mortar shells and machine gunfire, a young man woke to the shrill wails outside in the street, having managed to snatch a few hours fitful sleep in the desire that the bed he lay in should be his coffin so he would have no knowledge of his own death.

  The wailing should not have woken him, should not have alarmed him. After the months of grim, remorseless warfare, he was becoming accustomed to the monstrous rage of artillery fire from up on the hills overlooking the city. The stuttering of the machine guns spitting out frantic rounds held no terror for him now, was no more than background noise like the harsh, guttural plosives of his own language.

  He’d been a university student once. Second year medicine. Now the sticky, metallic stench of blood made him dry retch. But his other senses had long been cauterized in battle. He’d once read that the high-pitched, sharp ringing in his ears was the sound of loss and death – of his own ear cells in his aural canals dying – and that once it was over he would never hear that frequency again, so he was uncertain as to what had woken him now.

  He fumbled upright, swaying drunkenly on his feet. These days he moved like an old man, his bones beginning to wear him, his sores cantankerous. He should have celebrated his twentieth birthday last May but the war had already begun and there was no opportunity for celebrations, not when the nerves of the city had been so frayed. Dragging his creased frame towards the back of the apartment block where a gaping hole had been left as evidence of Serbian bombing raids, he floundered amongst rubble till he was standing at the opening with a clear view of the ruined city stretching before him.

  He felt the pain in his gut, wrenching the breath from him cruelly, before he realized what had caused it.

  Though he remained unharmed, his vision stayed locked upon the blazing nineteenth century building in the distance. Sarajevo’s former town hall, the Vijecnica, had been hit by incendiary rockets and its roof was aflame.

  The horror of it assailed him.

  The Vijecnica housed the National Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina, its priceless contents irreplaceable.

  Before he made a conscious decision, his legs were already moving, catapulting him towards the entrance of the apartment and out onto the ravaged streets of Sarajevo. As he stumbled over the uneven path, he was joined by many other citizens of Sarajevo – though emaciated, despairing, and reeling from the brutal struggle of a long, cruel siege, they came together with one common purpose. Their only thought was to rush to save the soul of their city.

  But it was already too late.

  As the group approached the access to the Vijecnica, they were assaulted on all sides by the demented, maniacal wailing of mortar and machine gunfire. The sound blended with the wailing of women and children as the plumage of acrid gunpowder polluted the air, obscuring vision and scent, save for the rusty smell of blood. He fell to his knees amongst the explosion of brick and dirt; the sharp, jagged edges of upturned cobblestones and the brittle bones of the long dead digging into his palms and knees where he knelt. But even this, he failed to feel.

  The rapid tattoo of his heart drowned out the cacophony engulfing him and he watched the beauty of this emblematic building going up in flames. Its architecture – a symbol of the entangled, extraordinary history of the city – graced the city’s landscape in
all its excessive, palatial luxury and lay at its centre. Within its monumental marble pillars, imposing masonry and octagonal atrium, its architectural frivolity and glamour housed over one and a half million volumes, including ancient manuscripts, precious documents and rare books.

  The young man wanted to weep for the loss. So much knowledge, so much history, its entire inventory of books accumulated over lifetimes, all destroyed in a heartbeat. Thousands of unique texts of extraordinary value were burning in front of his eyes. Though the heat of both the long summer night and the blaze beat down upon exposed head and face, still he could not look away.

  As the library was engulfed in an inferno, the heavens seemed to weep. Not tears. Not blood. But fragments of sooty, blackened books. Like dirty, charred snowflakes they drifted to earth. All around the city, sheets and fragments of burning paper – fragile, flaming pages – descended to earth as charcoal coloured ash. Like dying moths and butterflies, they lit the sky and floated to the ground.

  The young man reached out a hand to capture this immeasurable treasure. The paper scorched him. He could feel the intensity of its heat and from his schooling knew that it had reached the ignition temperature at which paper burns.

  And just for a moment he could read a fragment of text on the palm of his hand, written in a strange form like the image of an X-ray or negative. He choked back hysterical laughter as the heat dissipated and the fragment of a page melted to grey ash in his hand.

  All around the city of Sarajevo, the Word of God was falling from heaven...

  SAFFRON

  THE WITCHING HOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  An explosion thundered above the canopy of trees breaking the silence and stillness of the night, followed by a succession of rapid rifle fire causing me to trip on an exposed tree root, cursing as I landed hard on my hands and knees in the powdered snow carpeting the forest floor. As the icy damp seeped into my jeans where I knelt, another explosion and stuttering volley of gunfire burst overhead lighting the night sky with streaks and ribbons of sparkling colour in blood red and glittering gold. Fireworks briefly illuminated the darkness of the woods, the colours bleeding together in the mirror provided by the snow, creating an exotic Persian carpet.

  Midnight. The witching hour. The first day of January.

  A year ago I would have been partying hard with my friends down at the beach, watching the fireworks, flirting with the hot guys, and dancing to the retro classics and latest hits – that’s if my parents hadn’t made me attend one of their parties, which were always pretty lame.

  This year might have been different as my family were heralding in the New Year at the Akitu festival thrown by the British Museum, with entertainers like Cirque du Soleil, hired scenery and costumes. Normally I would have attempted to sneak out of my parents’ boring celebrations where they listened to boring music, and discussed boring topics with their geriatric friends – okay, maybe that wasn’t quite fair, but most of their guests were boring, middle-aged academics and art collectors whilst the only person my age in attendance was Sage, and she seemed to actually enjoy their dull conversations on global warming and the global financial crisis – and while this year I was doing just that, sneaking out of their plans once again, it was for an entirely different reason. I knew that I should have been celebrating with them, making resolutions, and toasting our fortunes with flutes of chilled champagne – and, for the first time ever, I felt a twinge of guilt at my duplicity. I should have been there with them, turning over a new leaf, but I’d left behind all that to venture into the woods.

  Looking beyond the copse of silver birch trees, I could almost make out the faint outline of Satis House bathed in the silvery-blue light of the moon, turning the landscape a vaporous cyanotic blue. It was a supernatural landscape, reminding me of lurid gothic tales; the ones with vampires, werewolves and ghouls. It seemed the perfect night for them to come out and cause mayhem as the barrier between the two worlds – the real and the imagined – blurred.

  Levering myself to my feet, I brushed down my jeans as best I could, even though they were now wet, clammy and cold, and sticking uncomfortably to my skin, and continued to move forward, pushing beyond the thicket of ferns and bracken that lay in my way. I’d left the British Museum hours ago, making my way back to Kent to set my plan in motion. This was it. There was no way I was going to pass this opportunity up – it might be my last chance. To suit this purpose, I’d parked the car a little distance away so it wouldn’t be seen from the road and changed out of the boring costume I’d worn to the fancy dress celebrations so I wouldn’t stand out, making it easier for me to disappear, into my comfy casual clothes. Slinging my backpack onto my shoulder and retrieving my torch, I’d trudged into the woods following the line of trees that skirted the edge of the property.

  I finally broke through a parting in the overgrowth, the brambles clutching at my clothing and hair like spindly arms willing me to turn back before it was too late. But it was already too late – if Sage knew what I was up to, she would kill me. I suspected that her fiancé or boyfriend or whatever she wanted to call him, St. John knew but, already having warned me to watch my step as supposedly I didn’t have any clue what I was up against, I guess he was trusting that I was at least sensible enough to take care of myself and a derelict mansion posed little threat. Besides, he was preoccupied with Sage.

  Sensible might not have been a word people normally associated with me, but at least I wasn’t stupid. I was determined to do this tonight even though I felt the faint stirrings of nervousness. I prided myself on being daring and I had no time now for doubts as the ugly architectural abomination of Satis House loomed before me. In the darkness, it was even more eerie and haunting than on the other occasions during daylight hours when I’d previously visited.

  From this angle, Satis House looked much like a skull or mask rising out of the ground as the moon’s luminous face shone through the gaps, exposing its rotting interior – its hollow eye sockets the empty windows of the first storey; its crooked, broken teeth in the form of unhinged French doors along the terrace. A dismal, derelict, gutted ruin, closed in upon itself in the wan moonlight, Satis House seemed to deliberately shun visitors. Bleached and weathered old brick buckled under its own weight, with many of the windows and doors in the west wing boarded up; those windows that remained on the lower floor were behind rusted iron bars giving it a sinister look. It was like a fortress or prison. I could almost imagine that Satis House was aggressively keeping trespassers out ... or attempting to keep something in.

  Around the towers where bats might be found to cling to its barren rafters in between their nocturnal journeys, rusted guttering embraced the architecture as if the house was just managing to hold itself together. Incessant dripping could be heard as melted snow and thawing icicles dripped and dribbled through the holes in the guttering and broken clay pipes. One side of the house was in ruin – there was no roof, merely a rotting facade. Under the pale light of the moon, darkened smears left there by fire marred the pale grey brickwork, so it looked as if the house was oozing blood.

  As I approached cautiously, turning off my torch in case someone should see the flicker of light, I noted that the great iron gates which surrounded the property were padlocked against trespassers. Through these, I could make out the courtyard – nature having long ago reclaimed the path leading up to the house.

  There was an atmosphere of brooding menace as if the house itself was waiting, pensive, for something – someone – to arrive.

  Despite all of this, I was damned if I was going to turn back. I didn’t know what it was that drew me to this place but I kept coming back like a homing pigeon. The derelict house should have repulsed me, but it didn’t. Instead, it held a morbid fascination – a fascination which was wrapped up in its caretaker, the young man who had saved my sister’s life.

  As I didn’t want to examine those feelings too closely, instead I reached behind me to my backpack and, stowing my torch, w
ith as little noise as possible removed from the backpack a pair of wire-cutters taken from Dad’s shed. Once again kneeling on the cold, wet ground, I slowly cut away a part of the wire-mesh fence; the moon reflecting upon the snow as my guide, turning the fence to white-silver. I tried to hurry without calling attention to myself or making much noise, afraid that if I were caught I’d be facing more than the punishment meted out by my parents, and I doubted if St. John would be too happy to come and save me from my own folly. Finally, when the last link had been cut, I rolled back a section of the fence and crawled through.

  Immediately, I was hidden amongst overgrown weeds and brambles, feeling the sharpness of thorns digging into me, catching at the strands of my long chestnut coloured hair pulled back into a ponytail and ensnaring my dark, woollen jacket. I ignored the discomfort I was feeling to remain in the overgrowth a while longer. Crouching low, I inhaled a long, deep breath and closed my eyes.

  Speaking to my sister previously, Sage had given me an idea. She didn’t credit me with much intelligence but I had learnt long ago to rely on my wits and intuition, which I trusted even now. In her discovery of the artefact’s sentience, it made me wonder about its curious markings and its ability to keep the truth hidden from every other person but the Wise One. The similarity between the photographs taken of the artefact and Satis House – a series of fissures and pockmarks like an image taken from the Hubble Telescope – made me wonder if there was some kind of connection between the two. I was reluctant to voice my theory until I’d tested it out and so I’d been hanging around Satis House during the past few weeks hoping to find something. But there had been nothing to see since that first time and I wondered if I was doing things wrong, which made me slip out from the New Year’s celebrations and come straight here. I figured that if I was going to be able to see a true vision, my best chance would be at the start of the new year at midnight.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I listened to the way my heart beat out a staccato rhythm and the laboured sound of my own breathing, willing myself to calm down. I concentrated on the sound as I inhaled and exhaled – a technique taught in the Yoga class I took at the gym. Slowly, I managed to bring my breathing under control.