Sword- Part Two Read online

  Gabriel, who had been watching our behaviour with lazy delight, called out, ‘Entrez vous!’ as Fi hastily plopped herself down on the seat next to me as if she was about to be caught in the process of behaving gauchely.

  The door swung outward and the cabin steward discretely entered bearing a welcome tray of gently bubbling Bellini cocktails in tall champagne flutes and a bowl of pistachios which he distributed before announcing that brunch would be served shortly. The smug look upon Gabriel’s face as he raised his glass in salut made me realise he had anticipated our naïve reaction to what obviously was a common experience for him as he then proceeded to converse with the cabin steward in spitfire French as if they were old acquaintances, which indeed they were.

  Then, no sooner were we pulling out of London’s Victoria Station – or so it seemed to me – despite the sedate pace of train travel, I felt time speed up, driving me inexorably towards my destiny and the meeting with Elijah.

  The first part of our journey passed in a whirlwind of experiences – a three-course brunch served on our way to Folkestone, passing the familiar countryside of Kent, a band playing as the British Pullman terminated at Folkestone West and we were transferred to a fleet of executive coaches and taken to the nearby Channel Tunnel terminal, and finally crossing the Chunnel over to Calais where the distinctive, gleaming blue, cream and gold trim carriages of the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express, reflecting the Golden Age of travel of the Roaring Twenties, stood waiting at the Calais Ville platform, like the Hogwarts Express, to bear us away on the next leg of our journey.

  If the British Pullman carriages were considered lavish, the Continental wagon-lits were straight out of the era of The Great Gatsby and held all the romance and beauty of the age. By now, Fi was almost too amazed to speak – almost, but not quite, as she kept up a running commentary that indicated her deep aesthetic appreciation. I was almost convinced that my mother might have been right in her assessment of Fi and Gabriel’s compatibility as they both wanted the world to be beautiful and interesting; it fed their souls.

  We were shown to our compartment – more than a coincidence but a sign; number seven – and I found to my great surprise that it was a private cabin suite, formed from two interconnecting double compartments. In its day configuration, the magnificent interior of the compartment with its two lounges – similar to a private sitting room – footstool, small folding table and banquette seating which converted to upper and lower berths for sleeping, Art Deco design and inlaid marquetry oak furnishings, was certainly the most luxurious I had ever travelled in; far more lavish than what St. John had managed to book last minute for our trip to Italy, which was functional but not aesthetic or extravagant.

  I marvelled at the attention to detail as Fi’s curiosity took hold and, drawing back the decorative oak panels near the door, revealed a tidy porcelain washbasin with various items placed at hand, lining the walls – a crystal decanter, crystal glasses, soaps and toothbrushes and other toiletries – all in the distinctive branding of the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express – similar to that of a five star hotel, fluffy white hand cloths and face towels and bottled mineral and still water. Few people in the world had experienced such opulence and decadence.

  The arrival of the cabin steward heralded a new discovery as he deftly transformed the interior of the cabin to house two small tables in front of the banquette seats and set down a silver tray of chilled, pale gold champagne in engraved VSOE crystal flutes and a bowl of glossy, red strawberries. As he did so, he requested our preferred time for the lunch and dinner sittings, and advised us that cocktails were served in the Bar Car should we wish to partake.

  I should have heeded Gabriel’s advice to enjoy the moment, to take advantage of this brief respite, but my paranoia would not be appeased by such hedonism. Even as Fi vividly chatted away with Gabriel, mirroring white noise in the background, my mind was restless and could not settle.

  Travelling towards St. John’s biological father and my own fate, I wondered at Finn’s urging to seek out the Watcher. Once more, it seemed to me that Finn knew things, had a foresight that the rest of us lacked. Why had he encouraged Fi to read Mary Shelley’s gothic tale? Why had he encouraged us to place hope in Elijah? Reflecting upon all I knew, it seemed clear that the poisoning and torture of the Nephilim, the rape and impregnation of the human women, and St. John’s slowly unravelling mind were similar to the legends of the Titan, Prometheus.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wondered whether all these legends had some grain of truth in them. Staring blindly out the window as we drew away from the metropolis, I thought of the irony of how adults often told children not to tell tales – tall tales, folk tales, old wives’ tales, fairy tales – but these were often more generous with the truth than simply being filled with falsehoods and fantasies. Why was it easier to believe fiction than the reality?

  And the Nephilim had existed for millennia. Stories were composed about them for almost as long as their time on Earth, stories created out of fear and awe. They were viewed as gods by some – and I wondered whether such a Nephilim, called Prometheus by humankind in the same way that Anak was deified as Zeus, might have existed.

  I knew of the legends – that Prometheus was spared imprisonment in Tartaros because he had not fought along with his fellow Titans during the war with the gods of Olympus. I knew that he created man, shaping him out of clay – it was Prometheus who decided to make man stand upright, similar to the gods, and to give man fire. But Zeus was enraged by what he saw as Prometheus’ rebellion and decided to inflict a terrible punishment upon him. Zeus had his minions, Force and Violence, seize Prometheus and take him to the Caucasus Mountains, and chain him to a rock with unbreakable bonds to suffer an eternal punishment. Here, he was tormented every day by a giant eagle who disembowelled him, pecking out his liver, only to be regenerated at night.

  I could not imagine such unbearable torture inflicted upon another living thing for an eternity. But I did know that, as most of his family had been banished to Tartaros, Prometheus loved man more than the Olympians and was prepared to champion them at any cost. Was this like Elijah? And St. John?

  I wondered if a similar fate awaited St. John if, unlike Heracles, I failed to save him. Would he be bound in an eternal hell of his own mind and by Belladonna’s cruel design?

  The image of St. John in Isabella’s arms returned to haunt me – I couldn’t seem to purge it from my mind and I hated that I was consumed by a combination of jealousy, despair and a white-hot anger.

  Overwhelmed suddenly by the sheer enormity and responsibility of the task ahead, I excused myself to use the lavatory in order to splash water on my face. Swaying in time to the rhythmic motion of the train, I slowly made my way to the end of the carriage where the lavatory was located. But just as I reached my destination, the train rounded a sharp bend and jerked wildly, tossing me backwards. I should have fallen – and, if I had, I may have been badly injured – but, instead, I was caught up in a strong embrace, righted and, just as quickly, released.

  Whirling on my heel, I confronted my saviour whose lightning reflexes had prevented my fall – only to find my gaze drawn down, down, down to look upon a very young boy, barely more than a child and nowhere near puberty, despite his lanky frame.

  I blinked in astonishment.

  His high, exotic cheekbones and bone structure, narrow aquiline nose, and sharp chin formed angular planes that caught the light like polished ivory. His eyes were a clear, hypnotic blue, the colour of the rarest blue icebergs. And his hair was so fair, it was almost white.

  He was something other. Something other than mortal. Something other than Nephilim. But, unmistakably, there was angelic ancestry. And, if he was an angel, he was the youngest I had ever met or seen.

  My words of thanks stuck fast in my throat. I was completely taken off guard. He looked over me as I looked over him, fascination written upon his expression. He did not blink nor break his gaze. Later, the only way I coul
d describe the strange sensation of his spellbinding, compelling charm was through Bronte’s words: “... he possessed the power to depart as much as a cat possesses the power to leave a mouse half killed, or a bird half eaten ...” and yet he seemed peculiarly unawakened and innocent.

  ‘Who are you?’ I whispered, as an abnormal lassitude stole over me.

  ‘It makes no difference who I am,’ he replied, and his voice was so soft and sweet that it was as if he was singing. He looked through me with those extraordinary blue eyes, as if all my secrets were to be read upon my face and exposed to his scrutiny. ‘What matters is that I know who you are, Wise One. You are in terrible danger. I sense the danger all around you. Even now.’

  ‘How do you know me? Are you with the Grigori? The Fravashi?’ I asked.

  ‘Please do not ask me to explain. I am merely an errand boy. A messenger,’ he said quietly. ‘I am here to warn you. All things of Heaven and Earth have a reason. The game has always been in motion. From this world to the next. There will be a price to pay ... but it is not you who will pay it.’

  I shivered, suddenly chilled by his ominous words, a repeat of both Sariel’s and St. John’s – and so there was no mistaking the meaning behind them.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ I asked impatiently.

  But he did not answer my question, simply stating, ‘It is a grave mistake. Mark me, Wise One. Always hasten slowly.’

  His cryptic message baffled me and I immediately grew angry, my voice rising, ‘This is absolutely ridiculous! You’re talking in riddles! I don’t even know who you are! I’ve never seen you before in my life and yet you claim that you know me! Who do you think–’

  The boy reached up and, in a very adult-like gesture, placed his hand gently on my shoulder and looked into my eyes, never breaking eye contact, not even to blink. ‘Yes, you have. And we will meet again. But first, heed my words.’

  And he pressed a piece of paper into my left hand.

  I looked down at the small folded note. It took but a second.

  But when I looked up again, he was gone, as silently as he had arrived.

  CHILD OF PROPHECY

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Mademoiselle? May I help you?’

  The sleeping car attendant was exiting from a neighbouring compartment and, having spotted me dithering in the corridor, lent his assistance.

  Frantically, I looked about me. The corridor was empty, save for the cabin steward and me.

  ‘Er ... did you see the young boy I was talking to just now? Do you happen to know which cabin he’s staying in?’ I asked, letting my chestnut hair fall over half my face to cover my embarrassment under his intense scrutiny.

  He looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. I didn’t see anyone with you.’

  Surprised, I looked directly at him as I drew a long breath, sucking in much needed air.

  ‘But I was just talking to him! You must have seen him! Pale skin, blue eyes, very fair hair – almost white – no more than ten-years-old, about so tall,’ I protested, glaring at the steward in exasperation, even though it wasn’t his fault.

  I knew the Nephilim could move fast but not this fast – there had been no time to flee. It was as if the boy had simply vanished into thin air. And yet I still held the slip of paper in my hand which he had given to me; proof of his existence.

  ‘I’m afraid you must be mistaken, Mademoiselle,’ the sleeping car attendant was saying, his tone polite, perhaps even slightly indulgent as if he was humouring another diva. ‘There’s no one of that description on board this carriage. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, there are no young children travelling with us on this leg of the journey.’

  Thanking him with a vague smile, I beat a hasty retreat to the mosaic-tiled lavatory. My intent had been only to escape from his curious gaze but I now leant back against the lavatory door, gathering my errant thoughts. I was trembling; the hair on the back of my neck raised, and my skin prickling to goose bumps. Fearing I might somehow drop or lose it, or that it might mysteriously disappear just like its bearer, my fingers were wrapped tightly around the vital scrap of paper, and I had no desire now to linger. My heart pounded against my ribs. I felt like I was on a precipice. Danger behind. Danger ahead. And, as the messenger had warned, danger all around.

  I took two deep, calming breaths – which did little to calm me – and, opening the lavatory door just a fraction to check whether the cabin steward had moved on, saw that the coast was clear. Spring sunlight flooded through the row of glass windows in the corridor, illuminating its emptiness as I walked quickly back to the private compartment. Flinging open the door, I practically threw myself inside and slammed it shut behind me.

  I’d been gone for less than ten minutes and this would not have aroused anyone’s suspicion that something might have – could have – happened to me in those brief moments.

  ‘Oh good, you’re back!’ said my sister cheerfully, failing to pick up on my agitation. ‘Just in time too. I’m taking some photos of our journey.’

  She brandished her new smartphone with a smile – having lent me her old one since I’d lost my purse at Home House along with all its contents – a gift to herself with her first pay packet. But Gabriel was not so distracted.

  Quickly jumping up in concern, he exclaimed, ‘Chouchou, what has happened? Come, sit! Assieds-toi!’

  Stumbling forward, I collapsed in an anxious heap upon the plush banquette seat and blindly reached for the glass of chilled champagne. Gripping the stem tightly, I downed it in one long draught as if I was dying of thirst. I had never had more than the occasional glass of port or sip of champagne on special occasions at home, and now it went immediately to my head.

  ‘Slow down, girl! You’ll get drunk that way and make yourself sick! Besides, this is the good stuff! You don’t want to waste it!’ Fi protested, quickly retrieving the empty crystal flute from my trembling fingers and placing it carefully back down on the table. Then, thrusting a bottle of water into my hand, asked, ‘What the hell’s wrong?’

  I sat stiffly between them. And when I spoke, it was with some strain.

  ‘I met someone in the corridor just then. A messenger,’ I said quietly.

  ‘A messenger? And?’ asked Fi, eyebrows raised, not picking up on my meaning.

  I clarified as Gabriel opened the compartment door to check that the corridor was vacant, ‘I mean, a supernatural messenger.’

  Suppressed energy was building around the compartment, and neither of them interrupted me as I began my tale – despite the obvious temptation to shower me with questions. When I finally came to the part about the slip of paper, I sensed their eyes on my tightly clenched fist and the mysterious contents it held within.

  They moved closer to me as, fumbling, I opened the frozen fingers of my left hand and extracted the folded note. Even before I started reading it, a sense of cold horror ran through me from my shoulder blades and down my spine. The antique, Roman script marked the era; the paper I held was spotted with age and much of it was rendered illegible. The writing was in a bizarre Latinate Italian, mixed with words of Latin and Greek origin, and some Arabic and Hebrew too. All this I could see at a first quick glance. It was as if the author deliberately wanted to be cunning like the Babylonians who safeguarded their knowledge in the Esagila Tablet and other secret texts. And, stranger still, at least five hundred years separated the writer and myself.

  I looked up at Gabriel first, then Fi. She was staring at the cryptic, arcane document in equal horror and disbelief. It was even more confusing than the Sator Square. Our eyes met. Then slowly, I turned back to the paper which, with shaking hand, I pressed open on the table and had Gabriel translate for us all in his smooth, rich voice as my eyes journeyed its deliberately plotted reading path:

  “... in the form of a complex and intricate labyrinth ... circular paths ... in place of streets there ran rivulets of water. This was a mysterious place ... fertile, supplied with an abundance of sweet fruits
and ornamented with generous springs, rejoicing in flowering greenery, and offering everywhere solace and recreation ...

  ... whoever enters cannot turn back ... these towers placed here and there divide seven circuits from one another. The great danger run by those who enter is that a deadly dragon, voracious and invisible dwells in the open entrance of that central tower ... yet one cannot see him, and ... cannot escape him ... devours those who enter ...

  ... until it becomes dark and lightless.

  Right in the centre was a mysterious thing ... image, divine, grave ... These figures were as tall as the black stone ... It was no human work, but divine ... Above each angle of the dark stone I saw ... a human face, the second half-human and half-beast, and the ... was completely bestial ... a lion with its head raised ...

  ... no beginning and no end ... past, present and future

  ...vanquished giants who wanted to reach his high threshold, to seize his sceptre and to be equal to him; and he struck them with lightning. In his left hand he holds a flame of fire ...

  We reached a rocky and stony place where the high mountains rose up

  steeply, and then came to an abrupt, impassable and jagged peak. It was

  all eroded and full of rugged outcrops, rising to the sky, circled

  with thorn bushes, devoid of any greenery and surrounded

  by treeless mountains. And here were

  the ... portals, crudely hacked into

  the living rock: an ancient work of

  incredible antiquity

  in the utter desolation

  of this site.”

  Fi’s expectancy was as taut as strung livewire, evident as she was the first to break the long silence. ‘It’s a prophecy. Or maybe directions. And the messenger was sent to us just like the angel who was sent to the Magi to inform them of the danger in returning to King Herod. So, I guess, it’s a portent of doom or ill omen then.’