A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

He held out his nail-pierced hand to her.

  Polly took hold of Jesus’ outstretched hand. She smiled in ecstasy as the guillotine blade fell . . . fell . . . fell . . .

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Monastery Chapel, East Gardens, Alexandria, Egypt

  Lawrence stared up at the towering stone walls of the empty monastery. It seemed cavernous now that everyone had finally evacuated the grounds. Dylan Weaver and the surveillance team had left with General Khalid over an hour ago. All staff, Jordanian military, and the museum’s artifacts had been evacuated forty minutes before that. Every inhabitant of the monastery of Alexandria was now safely on the way to Jordan, two miles below the surface of Egypt, traveling by rail at the speed of sound.

  Lawrence walked slowly through the shaded olive grove, past the monastery’s olive press. He unfastened a small iron gate that opened onto the eastern gardens. He had received word that Nick and Alex had arrived safely in Damman, Saudi Arabia. Jason had just taken off on his way to Julia in New York. Only he was left.

  He looked up into the sunlight, then passed his hand over the Egyptian skies. A hooded rider wielding a scythe galloped through the heavens.

  Lawrence walked along the path under rows of cypress trees on either side, until he reached a small stone chapel.

  Slowly he pushed open the heavy carved cedar doors, then walked up the nave. He closed his eyes, his head bowed in reverence to the figure of Christ above the exquisitely carved altar, and breathed in the fragrant aroma of the burning aromatic gums and spices that rose from the golden censer standing on the altar.

  He smelled spikenard. A memorial to her. He knelt in reverence to the slain lamb. Tears welled up in his eyes. Then he froze, sensing an unwelcome presence.

  “My, my.” The familiar chilling tones, today adopting a distinctly Deep Southern accent, pierced the silence.

  Lucifer stood at the entrance to the chapel, in the center of the open doorway.

  He took a step forward.

  “My, my, my! Ah do declare . . . ” He lifted his hands dramatically. “If it isn’t my old mentor, Jether the Just —or should I say, the esteemed Professor Lawrence St. Cartier.”

  He surveyed Lawrence.

  “Mm-m-m, that cravat is just darlin,’ Professor. I’ll answer your question. I’m doin’ fair to middlin’—thanks for askin’. But, Professor, the air here is just riddled with black plague.

  Oh, my, my, that’s right. It slipped mah mind—you’re immortal, just like me!”

  He leaned over and idly picked up the Book of Common Prayer.

  Lawrence stood silently, his gaze never leaving the statue of Christ.

  “All over the world, they chant it, sing it. Bored out of their tiny little minds, they go through the motions, their thoughts on the Sunday roast, online shopping . . . ” He snickered. “ . . . getting in the vicar’s wife’s knickers.”

  He raised his hands. “Oh my, my! Ah am just downright sorry! You look just about as happy as a dead hog in the sunshine, Professor. Forgive me for that profanity. I clean lost mah manners!”

  He tossed the prayer book aside, grinned, and reverted to his precise British accent with its exotic inflection.

  “Anglicans.” He took a step up the aisle.

  “Methodists.” He took a second step.

  “The Catholics.” Lucifer grinned. “Lots of Catholics. Just love their rituals. Quite transfixing. All that money on vestments and gold icons that could surely be put in the Vatican bank with its other laundered billions.

  “You must admit, Professor. All that money. All in His name. Billions of dollars, pounds . . . ”

  “Y’all”—switching back into his Southern accent—“even I never dreamed I would win on such a colossal scale. Miss Scarlett, it’s a complete travesty!”

  He turned to Jether.

  “What in the Sam Hill is going on?”

  Jether stood, his back still to Lucifer. “Not all merely go through the motions,” he said very softly. “There are still those who believe. Those whose faith is in Him, not in the ritual but in the relationship.”

  “The church is weak,” Lucifer hissed.

  Jether raised his eyes, blazing with a holy fire, to Lucifer’s. “Then why do you fear them so much, Lucifer? Why does every fiber of your soul tremble when those who bear the Nazarene’s seal come near?”

  Lucifer’s face contorted in rage. “If they only knew. If they even guessed the power within them. But that, of course, remains my greatest victory of all.”

  “Times change,” Jether said. “His army is rising. Even out of their weakness, their humanity, there is a clarion call to arms. You have been exposed. Identified. Many heed you no longer.”

  “Yes,” retorted Lucifer. “And they suffer greatly at my hands. I have trained the demonic realm meticulously. We, the Fallen, bring about their suffering, then lay the blame at His feet. Our whispered voices torment them in their dreams.

  “‘You follow Him. You serve Him faithfully,’ we whisper,” Lucifer hissed. “‘And yet, Yehovah abandons you. He allows you to suffer. What manner of God do you serve?’

  “Oh, yes, Jether, they shall feel as I felt. They know how it feels to be abandoned by Him. I target his ‘pets.’ Those He comes to in their dreams. His earthly visitations. Those who have usurped me, who occupy the place that was mine. Always mine. Take away their hedge of protection and they abandon him. Like whimpering babies.

  “He will finally be forced to admit that I was right. He shall rue his greatest folly: creating man. They have brought Him nothing but regret. Yet still He pursues them. They shall break His heart, Jether . . . as He broke mine.”

  “Oh, Lucifer, light bearer, you who were once so filled with wisdom and beauty.”

  “Those days are long gone,” railed Lucifer.

  “Yes,” Jether whispered. “Long gone.”

  “Hell, that could even depress the devil.” Lucifer swung around dramatically. “Oh, wait, that’s me.” He grinned malevolently.

  “Now to the point.”

  He moved his palm, and the roof of the chapel disappeared. He stared up at the form of a hooded rider on a pale horse crossing the Kármán Line of the earth’s atmosphere.

  “Nisroc rides. The Nazarene comes to rescue his mewling pets. The brilliance of my plan is unparalleled. The sensational disappearance of millions of ‘Christians’ buried in the outbreak of a global pandemic. Good riddance. This is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper.”

  Slowly Jether lifted the wooden cross that rested on top of the altar. “How thou art fallen, son of the morning.”

  Lucifer stared, silent. Transfixed. The skin on his forehead started to blister. He stumbled backward, hiding his face with his hands.

  “The King of Lies will always be slave to the King of Truth.” Jether stepped toward him. “You are His puppet, Lucifer. You reign a king without a kingdom. Ultimately, even your evil will serve to fulfill his omniscient plan.” Jether looked at him grimly.

  Lucifer backed down the aisle, blinded by the radiance emanating from the cross. “And yet,” he screamed, his face bubbling with consuming fire, “He still created me-e-e-e-e!”

  He pushed open the chapel doors, gasping for breath, and stumbled into the gardens, then slowly raised his blistered face to the Egyptian skies.

  “That is the unanswered question in the Race of Men,” he spat. “The answer to that question consumes me. It has become my obsession.”

  “As He is mine,” said another voice.

  Lucifer slowly removed his hand from his eyes. A lean, muscular form stood under the cypress trees.

  Lucifer studied the stranger’s chiseled features. “Michael.” A slow smile spread across his lips. “My brother.” Lucifer’s hands went to his face. He threw his hood over his head, hiding his blistered features.

  Michael bowed his head in deference. “Lucifer.”

  Lucifer strode across the grass, his cloak billowing out behind him.

 
Jether walked up behind Michael, his hand on his shoulder.

  “Lucifer!” Michael’s voice echoed across the gardens. “May Yehovah have mercy on your soul!”

  Lucifer turned. “Frankly, my dear . . . ” He stared contemptuously at Michael.

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  He bowed dramatically, then saluted Michael. And vanished in the air.

  Jether and Michael exchanged a glance.

  “As always, he overplays his hand,” Jether murmured.

  “The excitement in the High Courts is unparalleled,” Michael said. “The elders and angelic host are gathered at the Gates of the First Heaven. They await Christos’s return.

  “With His subjects.” He gazed up in wonder at a white form high in the heavens.

  “Those who have longed and yearned their entire earthly life for His appearing, those who have faithfully served Him even through their frailties and weaknesses—they shall finally see Him face to face. “They shall see their redeemer.” Jether looked at Michael in wonder. “They shall see their King.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Damman, Saudi Arabia

  Jibril embraced Jotapa fiercely.

  “I cannot rule without you, beloved sister,” he said. “You have been my counselor, my confidante. My closest friend.”

  Tears streamed down Jotapa’s cheeks. She covered Jibril’s face and hands with kisses. “Such a noble king you will make,” she whispered.

  “But you choose this other king,” Jibril retorted, strangely incensed. “You choose this Christ over the royal household of Aretas.”

  “Yes, I choose,” Jotapa whispered. “I choose, as my namesake chose before me.”

  Jibril turned away from Jotapa, his jaw set.

  Alex turned to Nick. “For God”s sake, Nick, what am I going to tell Lawrence? And Jason?” He sighed in frustration. “Oh, Jason’s just going to love this. You’ve just returned from the dead, and now . . . ”

  Nick grasped Alex by the head and pulled him to his chest. “I love you, man,” he said.

  “You were the only big brother I ever had,” Alex said, his voice breaking as he tried desperately to hold himself together.

  Nick held him tightly, then let him go. He frowned.

  “Jotapa . . . ”

  Jotapa stared back at Nick in wonder as, suddenly, an exquisite scent permeated the room.

  “It’s . . . it’s like Jasmine,” Jotapa whispered. “Or roses . . . ”

  Jibril’s entire body started to tremble violently. Jotapa started to move toward him.

  “No . . . ” Nick gently placed his hand on her arm as an intense, blinding light filled the room.

  “He is here,” Nick uttered in ecstasy.

  Jotapa turned. Alex was frozen in terror, hiding his face from the light.

  In the doorway, barely distinguishable because of the translucent light radiating from Him, stood a tall, imperial figure wearing the crown of a king.

  “He has come for us,” Nick murmured.

  Jotapa flung herself at the figure’s feet, weeping uncontrollably, her long dark tresses falling over his sandaled feet.

  Ever so slowly, Nick stepped directly into the light. He stood completely transfixed, unable to draw his eyes away from the figure’s gaze.

  His heart literally felt as though it were burning with an exquisite pain, like intensely hot coals within him.

  It had been so long that at times, he had almost believed that He was only a dream, that that day, over three years ago, had been a hallucination. But now, as he stared in wonder, the noble imperial features became fully visible.

  Oh, His beauty was indescribable.

  Tears streamed down Nick’s cheeks. And still he stared.

  Inexpressible joy welled up inside him. And still he stared, his entire being saturated in incandescent light.

  Bathing in the unfathomable love and compassion and infinite mercies that exuded from His being.

  Peace—a peace beyond Nick’s comprehension—flooded his entire being.

  Tears streamed down his cheeks. And still he stood, staring . . .

  Staring . . .

  Utterly transfixed by the eyes of his King.

  Jesus held out His hand to Nick.

  “Nicholas,” He whispered.

  Nick took Jesus’ hand. “It is time?” he whispered.

  Jesus smiled. “It is time.” He drew Nick into His embrace and held him to his chest, as would a mother with her child.

  Still clasping Nick, Jesus bent down and gently wiped the tears from Jotapa’s face.

  “Arise, Jotapa, princess of the house of Aretas.”

  Jotapa rose slowly to her feet and clung to him, burying her face in his white robes.

  Jesus looked over to where Jibril stood, trembling, unable to speak.

  “Jibril, crown prince of Jordan, you shall yet be as King Aretas, protector of your people.” He smiled. “And of mine.”

  He turned to Alex, who was still standing, his arm across his face.

  “Alex,” Jesus said softly. “Alex . . . ”

  Very slowly Alex raised his head, staring beyond the brilliance into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

  “You search for truth.”

  A strange burning sensation flooded Alex’s rib cage. He clutched at his chest in panic. It felt as though every cell of his physical heart were on fire.

  “And yet, I am the truth.” Jesus smiled tenderly—oh, so tenderly—at Alex.

  Alex fell to his knees.

  “Follow me, Alex Lane Fox.”

  “Alex, look after Jason,” Nick whispered. “Tell him I love him.”

  A form materialized next to Jesus. It was Polly.

  “Polly . . . ” Alex stared in utter disbelief. “What the . . . ”

  Alex turned away momentarily from the still blinding light.

  He looked back up. There was no one in the room but himself and the weeping crown prince, Jibril.

  The soft fragrance of the rose of Sharon.

  And the burning presence of the King of Kings . . .

  * * *

  The Slavic captain slowly lifted his face from the floor. He stared around the boxcar in shock, then terror. In the warehouse, hundreds of the singing prisoners had disappeared.

  “He was there,” one soldier said, pointing and retching.

  “No, he was there,” said another, pointing to the opposite end of the boxcar.

  The captain turned to them, trembling uncontrollably.

  “He was everywhere, it seems!” The captain stared at the bitter, beautiful woman, who stood silent and trembling.

  “Their nonexistent God has rescued them,” he spat.

  She fell to the ground, moaning. “I believe, I believe . . . ”

  “You’re too late,” he snarled, kicking her in the ribs. “She’s next!”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Gramercy Park Town House, New York City

  “Julia!”

  Jason pressed his face to the kitchen window of the Greek Revival town house.

  “Julia!”

  He glanced down at his watch. It was five a.m. precisely.

  Very slowly the ornate back hall door opened a crack, then swung completely open. Jason hurried past Julia into the hallway. He looked down at the silver designer suitcase and vanity case by the door.

  “No luggage,” he said.

  “No luggage?” The immense relief on Julia’s face turned to a glare. “You seriously expect me not to take any luggage?”

  Jason held up his hands. “I know this must be very hard for you to understand, Julia,” he said drily, “but we’re not about to leave for a five-star vacation in the Greek isles.”

  He put his face to hers. “We’re on the run.” He un- hooked a backpack from a hook behind the door. “Martial law. Submachine guns. Black helicopters. Here . . . ” He slung the backpack at her. Julia caught it. “Use Lily’s backpack.”

  Seething, Julia flung open her vanity case and haul
ed out her makeup, moisturizers, and cleansers.

  Jason rolled his eyes. “We may even have to walk.”

  Julia glared at him again. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you? Don’t answer that.”

  “We can use your car on the yellow-card precinct route, but we’re going to have to dump it when we get near the water,” Jason continued. “Go the rest of the way on foot.”

  His eyes narrowed. Julia followed his gaze to her five-inch platform Chloe casual sandals.

  “Dump the shoes, Julia.”

  She sighed. “I only have heels.”

  “You must have something less than a foot high.” Jason rolled his eyes. “We’re on the run, Julia, in case it hadn’t occurred to you.”

  She pulled out a pair of designer sneakers. “Three-and-a-half-inch, but they’re wedges.”

  Jason shook his head wearily.

  “I can walk in them.”

  “You’d better—you can take it to the bank that I’m not carrying you!”

  Julia glared at him, then threw him a set of car keys. He caught them in one hand.

  “So here’s the drill.”

  Jason looked her up and down. She wore a pale blue tracksuit, and her blond hair was pulled away from her face into a ponytail, accentuating her high cheekbones. She was wearing only foundation with the faintest hint of blusher, eyeliner, and a dab of gloss. He had always loved her minus the perfectly applied makeup that was her trademark.

  His voice softened. “Here’s the drill, Jules. Martial law is in place. All bridges are closed, and the Holland Tunnel. There’s only one route out of the city: the route to the quarantine precinct at Newark. The only vehicles allowed on the road are those carrying a yellow card: diplomats, ambassadors—privileged bearers. Orange and green card holders are convoyed to the centers in military vehicles.

  “We follow the route to the quarantine precinct, but we need to divert to Chinatown without the military seeing us. The fifth column has a military jet there waiting to fly us to a safe house in Kansas. It’s a patriot state. From there, we fly to Jordan and meet Lily and Lawrence at Petra.”

  Julia shook her head. “Fifth column—what are you talking about, Jason?”

  Jason flung the keys to the Mercedes sports car back to Julia, who missed them.