Seed- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  As I ushered my brother and sister into the warmth of the Manor House, I caught a small movement at the edge of the forest, no more than the rustling of low branches but enough to freeze me in my tracks. I became aware of how alone I was standing still in this wintry world now that my siblings and Indy had gone inside.

  At that precise moment, a dark figure stepped out from the trees, no more than fifty paces away from me. I froze, hovering very near the edge of fear. For a brief moment, a flicker of memory taunted me, like the smell of tainted fruit of a terrible, evil tree.

  My eyes focused on the motionless figure at the edge of the woodland beyond the pristine new-fallen snow. I felt overwhelmed by a dizzying array of emotions which shot through me with the quickness of a forest fire – dread turned to surprise, then hope to flourishing happiness. Even from this distance I could see the tumble of golden curls; the flattering width of his shoulders; the jade green colour of his eyes. A piercing bittersweet agony and delight rocked me to my core and I felt my feet of their own volition moving, picking up speed as I ran to cover the distance between us.

  Launching myself into his arms, I wrapped my limbs around his waist, uncaring of my lack of ladylike decorum. But then I was captured in a fast embrace and heard my name whispered over and over again like a litany and I realised that I hadn’t been alone in my feelings of mourning his absence; this parting had affected him equally.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked breathlessly as St. John set me down on my feet.

  ‘I came as soon as I could.’ The rich timbre of his voice almost had me swooning. ‘I couldn’t get away any earlier or I would have been here as soon as I got Gabriel’s call. Why didn’t you call me yourself?’

  I was surprised at the harshness in his voice as he uttered this last question.

  ‘You’re the Keeper of the Seed,’ I said as if this explained everything, my voice filled with incredulity.

  St. John’s jaw was set in a stubborn line, a pulse ticking beneath the tautness of his golden skin. ‘Sage, I want to know why you didn’t call me yourself. Why, instead, I received a call from Gabriel informing me of Louis’ threat to you.’

  I stared at him in disbelief. ‘You have a duty to the Seed.’

  The abruptness with which St. John released me had me staggering back in an effort to regain my balance. He threw up his hands in exasperation, bitterness turning his attractive voice raw.

  ‘Duty! Not you too, Sage! There are times when I feel like a caged animal!’ he exclaimed angrily, slamming his fist against a tree with the force of his emotions so that it shook violently and snow rained down on his golden curls, ‘I’m tired of forever being reminded of my duty. As if I could ever forget. All my life I have devoted myself to duty. I have watched as Nephilim, my brothers, have died to keep me alive. One day, Sage, I will tell you just what this has cost me. But know this – you come first before everything. Before duty. Before the Seed. Before my own life.’

  St. John’s hands were fisted at his sides and the look in his eyes was filled with the storm of his feelings for me. I moved forward and slowly reached out, taking his right hand in my own and brought it to my lips.

  ‘St. John,’ I sighed, rubbing my cheek against his knuckles until his hand slowly relaxed and opened. With infinite gentleness he brushed the pad of his thumb against the corner of my eye and it came away wet. It was only then that I realised I was crying.

  ‘You needn’t worry now, Sage. My brothers are watching Louis.’

  ‘But what about this investigation? And Interpol’s involvement? Louis will be at the museum asking questions. You’re bound to encounter him there.’

  ‘Louis can’t hurt me, except if he hurts you. He can’t do anything in public, Sage. You’ll be safe in a crowd of people. Just try not to be caught alone,’ St. John warned, the palm of his hand forcing my chin up to look at him.

  I nodded in agreement, seeing the anxiety in his eyes. Anxiety placed there because of me.

  ‘You said you couldn’t get here sooner,’ I found myself asking, ‘Where were you? What were you doing? Were you still with the brotherhood?’

  St. John gave an endearingly familiar Gallic shrug, ‘I was in conclave.’

  I blinked in surprise, thinking back on Fi’s words. ‘I guess that would have been different. A group of Nephilim huddled in some crypt somewhere engaging in secret rites.’

  St. John gave a derisive sort of cough, trying not to laugh out loud. I had the sneaking suspicion that he was silently laughing at me.

  ‘Who said anything about crypts and secret rites?’ Now St. John did laugh as I shot him a look, ‘It’s nowhere near as exciting as all that. We meet in a boardroom and engage in heated discussions, nothing more sinister. At least, not since the first century.’

  ‘Oh,’ I muttered, feeling foolish, ‘I guess I just assumed.’

  ‘You need to go back in now, Sage,’ he murmured as I feasted my eyes upon his flawless features, the snow having melted in his hair leaving sparkling crystal droplets as if he wore a crown. ‘Your family will be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  I smiled tearfully up at him, ‘You’re not coming in? But when will I see you again?’

  ‘Soon,’ he said, ‘Remember, call me when you need me. I’ll always be there when you need me.’

  I nodded as he kissed the tip of my nose and propelled me in the direction of the Manor House. Taking several steps without thinking, I turned round to get a last glimpse of him, only to find he’d already disappeared. I might have thought I’d imagined it all but for the deep imprint in the snow where he’d stood and the bark exposed on the tree where he’d slammed his fist into it. The evidence of his presence was reassuring and I returned to the Manor House bemused, but happier than I had been in days.

  The days before Christmas passed in a blur of activity. There were more presents to be purchased and wrapped, cards to be addressed and sent, stockings to be hung, the ham and turkey to be prepared, and Christmas puddings to be baked. In our family, there was a tradition to make individual puddings for each member of the family and for our guests. Jasmine and Alex, finally recovered from the flu, were swathed in festive-looking red and green aprons and seated at the kitchen counter, wooden spoons in readiness to drag through the heavy pudding batter, rich in brandy-soaked fruits and almonds.

  This year it was a reminder for me of the Magi visiting the Christ child in Bethlehem as we took turns to stir the pudding batter from east to west in honour of the Wise Men. The traditional rituals of Christmas took on an even greater significance and I found myself making my three wishes as I added the charms into each individual ramekin. There was a thimble for luck, a silver sixpence for wealth, an angel, a reindeer, a snowflake, a crown for the King or Queen for the Day, and a ring for marriage. It was my favourite custom of the season.

  ‘Be sure to make two more, Sage,’ Mum advised me as she saw that I was ready to place the first batch of puddings into the oven.

  ‘Two more?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘Your father has invited a couple of guests to join us,’ she said abstractedly as she cleaned up the spilt batter on the counter.

  I was anxious to find out who Dad had invited to share in our Christmas dinner but the phone rang and Mum wandered off to answer it and my curiosity was left unsatisfied. I just hoped that none of Dad’s guests was Louis Gravois as it would have been a very unpalatable Christmas dinner indeed.

  Several days later I finally discovered the answer to the question that was knocking about in my head.

  My family had attended the midnight service on Christmas Eve in anticipation of the festivities the following day. Arriving home at two in the morning, Mum ushered my younger siblings to bed with threats that Santa Claus would not be coming until they were in bed and asleep. Then we all settled in for the night, the snow still falling steadily.

  The next day, Christmas morning, dawned clear and crisp with a fresh layer of snow on the ground. Jasmine and Alex had
been up since five, feasting on candy canes and gingerbread men and playing with the gifts Santa Claus had brought during the night. After Alex had a chance to build his Lego castle, Dad dragooned him to help in clearing the paths to the house in anticipation of the arrival of our guests. Fi and I helped Mum to set the dining table with the Wedgwood service, silverware and Waterford crystal and a centrepiece of a glorious sugared peacock surrounded by holly which Mum had seen in a medieval cookbook at the British Museum and ordered from a specialist patisserie.

  While the turkey was basting and the champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket on the buffet, Fi and I went upstairs to change our outfits. I borrowed from Mum an outfit that I’d always admired and which was probably the only one I would have ever worn from her wardrobe – a bright red silk chiffon calf-length dress with a halter neck and tulle petticoat. I teamed this with a pair of my Mum’s Christian Louboutin strappy peep-toe shoes in the same shade of red, teetering in the impossibly high heels and wondering why any female would spend a ridiculous amount of money on a pair of shoes that was most likely going to twist an ankle or have her falling flat on her face. Carefully making my way to Fi’s bedroom, I decided to ask the expert for her help with my hair and makeup.

  Fi was applying her lipstick, having already finished dressing. Garbed in what appeared to be a vintage Dior dress in an eye-catching emerald green, her hair twisted in a French roll, I almost didn’t recognise her.

  ‘Where in the world did you get that dress?’ I asked in awe.

  ‘Aunt Lily sent it to Mum but it wasn’t really Mum’s style so she gave it to me,’ Fi explained, waving me over to be seated.

  I walked carefully forward, picking my way through the wardrobe explosion in her bedroom. Clothes were strewn everywhere; on the floor, on the bed, on the back of the wooden chair at her desk, spilling out of drawers and her French Provincial styled wardrobe. I recognised my cream lace blouse and denim jacket lying amongst the discarded items.

  ‘Hey, isn’t that my–’

  Fi cut me off. ‘Come on, Sage, sit down! We don’t have much time.’

  I sat before her vanity; its mirror plastered with post-it notes and photos, the tubes of lip gloss, pots of blush and powder spilling over her vanity table.

  Fi went immediately to work; seizing an eyeliner pen and wielding it like a dualist, she said, ‘Open your eyes wide.’

  I sat still, doing as she asked, until I was preened and plucked and powdered to satisfy Fi’s exacting standards. Finally, I looked in the mirror, shaking my head in amazement at the transformation. Remembering what St. John had said in his bedroom when I had worn the designer dress from Chloé, I reasoned that today I could safely claim to look sexy and sophisticated and mature.

  ‘MUM!’ Jasmine shouted, her high-pitched voice heard clearly from Fi’s bedroom on the first floor, ‘ST. JOHN IS HERE AND HE’S BROUGHT AN ANGEL!’

  My heart thumped in excitement but I exchanged a look with Fi, mystified.

  ‘Angel? Does she mean St. John? But she mentioned St. John.’ I shook my head in bewilderment. Then, with dawning recognition, I shot a smug look at Fi. ‘Now do you believe me? Even Jasmine can see there are angels!’

  Fi rolled her eyes at me. ‘Jasmine’s a child! She still believes in Santa Claus!’ She paused, then gave a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Let’s just say that I’m slowly warming to your belief in Nephilim,’ quickly adding, ‘but I’m still not completely convinced!’

  ‘Fair enough, Fi,’ I said, shaking my head as I moved away from her vanity where I’d been seated, ‘O ye of little faith. But you’ll learn.’

  She laughed as I exited the room, curious to find out what Jasmine was talking about and desperate to see St. John again. I made my way cautiously down the stairs to the drawing room, entering to find St. John and Gabriel seated beside the fire.

  The object of Jasmine’s fascination was the young Frenchman. He was pinned under her steady gaze as if she was waiting for him to sprout wings and take flight. I wondered whether Jasmine could see Gabriel’s wings because she was more attuned to the needs of wounded animals and, unlike St. John, Gabriel was the offspring of a fallen angel. If anyone could sense Gabriel’s malady, it would have to be Jasmine. I supposed this meant that Gabriel was even less comfortable in his own skin than St. John.

  As I moved forward, the tulle of my gown rustled and St. John and Gabriel’s eyes were drawn my way, both pairs widening in appreciation. Gabriel was the first to move to wish me felicitations of the season, enveloping me in a hug and planting kisses on my cheeks. St. John’s movements were slower, more measured, but also demonstrating the effect I had on him.

  ‘Look at my angel, Sage,’ Jasmine pointed Gabriel out to me. ‘See his wings? I wish I had wings like that. But he’s not a very happy angel.’

  Gabriel’s brow furrowed and he looked uncomfortable for the first time ever.

  ‘I think she’s psychic,’ I murmured teasingly to Gabriel who blanched in response.

  At that moment, Fi sailed into the room, a vision in green. Between Fi and Jasmine, Gabriel didn’t know where to look and his embarrassment was obvious. I rather liked the thought of this playboy being taken down a peg or two, even though Gabriel had been nothing but nice to me.

  Fi and I exchanged a glance as she’d heard Jasmine’s last statement, and I found myself smirking as it seemed that fanciful thoughts ran in my family.

  ‘Thank God, I’m only part human, Sage,’ St. John whispered in my ear, ‘otherwise my blood pressure would be soaring right now. As it is, I think your Dad deserves a medal for keeping you girls under wraps all these years.’

  I merely smiled at him as my parents entered the drawing room. I heard, as my father crossed to pump St. John’s hand heartily, that he was glad that they could make it to Christmas dinner and how unfortunate it was that St. John had to cut his leave short to return to the museum, but I was unable to question him about what this meant as, upon being introduced to Gabriel, St. John’s “brother”, and exchanging compliments of the season, we settled into a harmonious unit.

  Christmas dinner in the Woods’ household was an all-day affair. Seated round the dining table, Dad proposed a toast translated from Latin and Jasmine insisted that Gabriel say grace because he was an angel. I had to hide a smile as I bowed my head in prayer as we never usually said grace at the table but Jasmine’s ability to recognise Gabriel as a Nephilim was just too funny.

  Turkey with chestnut stuffing, ham soaked in brandy, roast duck, baked potatoes, roasted butternut pumpkin, asparagus in Hollandaise sauce – all these dishes and more were served up to our guests. Mum had outdone herself this year which was praised by all, but especially by Gabriel whose culinary knowledge led to a discussion of gourmet foods and restaurants.

  Hours later we were still seated at the dining table and though Alex had left to play with his Lego, Jasmine was willing to sit and scrutinise Gabriel across from where he sat. I rose to help Mum bring in the Christmas puddings which were poured with brandy and lit, blue flames dancing, sending out a delicious aroma of fruit and spices. Each pudding was a masterpiece of confectionary; firm and glistening on the outside; sticky, gooey and warm in the middle.

  Though we barely had any room left for dessert, we managed to fit in the pudding.

  It was ironic, however, when Gabriel’s pudding yielded an angel charm. Even Gabriel had to laugh at the coincidence, especially as Jasmine was even more convinced of the truth of Gabriel’s divinity.

  But it was less of a laughing matter when my own pudding yielded a charm fashioned as a ring. I couldn’t look directly at St. John but knew instinctively that both Fi and Gabriel were shaking with laughter at my predicament. My chestnut hair hung over my face, shielding me from further embarrassment as my blush almost matched the colour of my dress.

  I died a thousand deaths when Fi asked in a sotto voice, ‘So, who’s the lucky man?’

  I gave her a swift kick under the table but failed to do any real damage in
my strappy sandals. I had no idea how St. John was reacting to this but, equally, I had no desire to find out.

  It was only through Gabriel’s intervention that I was able to breathe again, the constriction round my chest lessening.

  ‘Oui, oui, oui, c’est moi. I would be happy to marry Sage if she would have me.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Jasmine instantly protested, ‘angels can’t marry.’

  ‘Bah, ma chérie,’ Gabriel said with a wink, ‘I am only half angel while the other part of me is mortal so, you see, of course I can marry.’

  My parents laughed as Jasmine’s eyes went wide, her expression doubtful at Gabriel’s seemingly nonsensical joke, unaware that he was telling the truth.

  Then Jasmine piped up, her childish voice high-pitched and precocious, ‘Well, then, you can marry me, not Sage!’

  And just like that the uncomfortable moment passed as everyone else roared with laughter, but still I refused to look St. John’s way.

  Dad proposed then that we should have after dinner drinks in the drawing room and adjourned with the rest of the family and guests while I volunteered to stay behind, supposedly to clear the table.

  In truth, my actions were motivated more by a desire that when I next faced St. John, I would have full control over my emotions. My mind was buzzing with thoughts and questions but I was too afraid to give voice to any of them. It was one thing for St. John to tell me that he’d give his life for me, it was quite another for him to want to marry me. I know we’d briefly spoken about having children but marriage ... well, I guess that was something best left for some other time in the future.

  Or, at least, that’s the way I thought of it.

  I wasn’t sure what St. John thought of it all or even if he had given it any thought. And that particular uncertainty was perhaps what kept me silent.

  THE WOODS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I lingered in the kitchen cleaning up; firstly washing the plates, crystal and silverware by hand as they were too delicate to be placed in the dishwasher and then drying them with a tea towel. So deep in reverie was I, tea towel in hand, methodically drying a crystal water goblet that when a voice from behind called my name, it managed to startle me, shattering my composure. I whirled around in surprise, crystal goblet slipping from my suddenly nerveless fingers but St. John was there in a second, his movements blurring so fast he barely registered on my senses except for the woody scent of him. And then he was standing in front of me, intact crystal goblet held out in his long graceful fingers for me to take.