by Asaf Ashery
“Don’t worry. This may look unconventional, but it’s common practice in Europe.”
Mazzy approached her aura-reader, who sat in the corner looking preoccupied and conflicted.
“Well?”
“I have never seen anything like this.”
“What?”
“He’s perfect. Simply perfect.”
Mazzy agreed that Barak Almadon was an exceptionally attractive man. His physique and posture were made for sculptures and poets. But she hoped that Izzy would approach him more professionally.
“This is all you have to say after an interview?”
“It was like examining a rainbow. His aura is the most colorful and stable I have ever seen. He could be the poster boy of auras. They should use him in aura reading classes, like a skeleton in anatomy lessons.”
“And what have you deduced?”
“Well, here’s the thing. There is nothing to deduce. No tremors, no changes, no defects, no energy channels. Nada. This man is a tabula rasa.”
The woman who was always ready to take action looked perplexed. Mazzy tried to redirect her to where she wanted her to go. “What did he pick from the basket?”
Izzy sprang back to life and started rummaging in her basket of crystals. She selected a green stone with gleaming striation: dark and light green patterns of perfect circles. Triumphantly, she held it up to Mazzy’s face.
“This, too, is remarkable. Nobody has ever picked this one. It took me awhile to remember where I got it.”
“What is it?”
“Malachite. One of the oldest stones I have. In essence, it offers protection and draws negative energies. But this is not what fascinates me.”
“What does then?”
“The fact that you can read the eyes of the stones. I mean, you’re supposed to. The energy that flows through them is supposed to be expressed in the reading.”
“Eyes of the stones? Izzy, are you OK?”
There were people in her unit who heard voices and had visions, but Izzy wasn’t normally so confused and unfocused.
“No, that’s the point.”
“Do you want to drink something?”
“Mazzy!” Goldfinger thundered. “This has to stop!”
She looked at the screen. Aelina was standing in front of the witness, her hands drenched in blood up to her elbows. She must have been kneading the cow’s entrails in the bowl in order to capture a picture in the mirror that Ashling was holding over her.
“I’m just telling you that if a drop of blood stains his shirt, it’s not going to be just a dry-cleaning bill. You’ll have to buy him a whole new wardrobe! I’ll have your ass for this! I’ll set the public prosecutor on you!”
“Don’t worry, Goldie, these women know what they’re doing.” Having said this, Yariv lifted pleading eyes at Mazzy, hoping for confirmation or a glimmer of hope. His view of the goings-on in the interrogation room was not much different from his boss’s, but he kept mum. Mazzy turned back to Izzy, who was obsessively fondling the stone.
“What’s so strange about the stone?”
“There are circles in it. They’re called eyes. Since I hardly ever deal with this stone, I don’t remember what the original pattern was. It seems to have changed somehow. You understand how maddening this is?”
“I can’t hear anything,” Goldfinger grumbled. “I can’t do my job if I don’t hear what they’re saying there.”
Mazzy looked at the screen again. Rachel, having finished reading the coffee dregs, had come into the room and was conferring with her acolytes.
All of this was pretty unsettling. None of the investigators would later say they had any inkling of what was about to happen. A second later, they all jumped from their seats and rushed for the door. Rachel had pushed aside the table that stood between her and Barak Almadon, and was pulling him up from the chair by his shirt collar. The investigators knew it had gone too far.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Listen to me, and listen to me good, you piece of shit.”
Barakiel was stunned. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that. Even back then, when the Athaliah reprimanded him, she had addressed him respectfully. But not Rachel. The woman with the fierce blazing eyes was pulling him by his collar and rasping in his ear,
“I have a message for you.”
Barakiel recovered from the initial shock and tried to grab Rachel’s hands, but she shook him off. Again, she said in an undertone, “I advise you to stop. Think about what you’re playing with here.”
Barakiel retorted in a quick, mordant hoot, like a colossal owl.
“Nobody’s playing here.”
Rachel did not recoil from his luminous skin, and Barakiel was surprised at the confidence she displayed. He leaned in until their cheeks touched and through his perfect lips whispered, “And in any case, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Rachel whispered back, “For three things the earth is disquieted, and for four which it cannot bear.”
He was visibly shaken by the resolute woman before him. His scalp started to tingle. She knew, or whoever sent her knew. The door opened and the three detectives entered. It was best to keep quiet.
“What did she tell you?” Yariv demanded. He stood panting between Rachel and Barakiel.
“Nothing. It wasn’t important.”
Goldfinger was more persistent. “I’m putting an end to this interrogation. If you want to talk to this witness again, check with me first. And I suggest you keep your witches away from him.”
Rachel and the other two witches looked disdainfully at the police chief. As Barakiel left the room, he threw a glance at the Simantov women. Yariv motioned to a detective to follow him, just to be on the safe side. Mazzy pounced on Rachel.
“What was that supposed to mean?”
“You have to understand, I had no choice. I wanted to shake him a little, to see what would come out.”
“Rachel, only you think that there were no other choices.”
Rachel did not respond. Her daughter did not understand, or perhaps was not yet ready to understand.
“Well, what came of it?”
An uninvolved bystander might think that Rachel was weighing her words, but Mazzy recognized her mother’s expression. It suggested that Rachel was smiling inwardly, a superior, secret smile.
Except it was not a secret, it was information, and Rachel was not about to share it with her, at least not yet.
“Rachel, is there something you want to tell me?”
“Look, Mazzy dear, this isn’t a simple matter.”
Mazzy was encouraged by the term of endearment her mother had used. In Rachel’s world, showing affection was the first sign of weakness.
“It is extremely simple. Few things in this world are that simple.”
“But, honey…”
“I’m not done!” Mazzy raised her voice by one octave, but without changing her expression, as Rachel had taught her to do. “It is very simple; either you work with Soothsayer sharing your info with the team, or you leave right now and cease to be part of this investigation. I’m not sure how you view the situation, so I’m explaining, to prevent any future misunderstanding.”
Rachel motioned to her entourage to walk away, and they obliged.
“The moment you enter this building, you become my subordinate. I cannot worry about your feelings as my mother or play your little mind games. Three women have been kidnapped; they may be somewhere safe and sound, or carved up and wrapped in plastic in some garbage dump. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t play your games right now.”
Rachel recoiled from the blatant affront, but there were more important things than her self-respect or Mazzy’s realization that her mother had only her welfare at heart. She must keep her out of harm’s way.
“You should be nicer to people you need,” Rachel said.
Mazzy knew where this phrase had come from, and felt slighted. Apparently, Rachel was able to roam quite freely in the recesses of h
er daughter’s mind.
She took a deep breath.
“Simply put, either you’re with us, or you step aside.”
Rachel left the room, leaving behind a trail of anger and resentment. Mazzy wasn’t sure if she was mad at herself for giving her mother a choice or just taken aback by the fact that Rachel, as usual, had opted for her own way.
By the time Rachel joined her disciples, she seemed to be over the hurt that leaving Mazzy had caused her.
“You have a location?”
Aelina nodded.
“Time?”
Ashling confirmed.
“Who is it?”
Ashling handed Rachel the identikit sketch she had produced. The hairline was only approximate and the restrained muscles were not reflected in the charcoal drawing. But Rachel knew that now the task had become easier. She recognized the woman’s face. She was the next snatch victim in the countdown.
THE FOURTH GATE
WISDOM
THE TWENTY-FOURTH DAY
THREE WEEKS AND THREE DAYS OF THE COUNTING OF THE OMER
“And the angel of the Lord said, ‘Why do you ask my name, seeing it is miraculous.’”
JUDGES 13:18
The hours ticked by and no Naphil arrived to abduct Abigail.
She was calm. At the end of the day, she would be proven right. Abigail Odem got up from her computer. It was already dark outside.
The professor kept a tight schedule, which helped her maintain her sanity; even on days when she was not teaching, she worked into the wee hours. She glanced at the four young women in the adjacent room and surmised that they, too, must have better things to do than being cooped up in her house.
The women were attuned to every little motion she made, trying to anticipate her next move.
All morning they had prowled around the house frantically, checking the cameras and the hastily installed motion detection sensors. The slightest sound sent their hands to their strange-looking belts.
Abigail got up and, with measured steps, strode out of the room.
“Where to?” asked one of the guards, whose name Abigail could not remember because of the great turnover.
“I’m going out for some fresh air,” said Abigail, in as polite a tone as she could muster.
The girl whispered something into her sleeve, and her colleagues suddenly sprang to life. The professor went down the stairs, preceded and followed by footsteps. The whole idea of waiting for a Naphil who might come to abduct her sounded silly.
Abigail went to the greenhouse, her sanctuary. She opened the door and was greeted by warmth and humidity. Blue fluorescent lamps had hoodwinked the plants into believing that daylight never ended, and an elaborate system of drip irrigation and climate control pipes provided the ideal conditions for growth and development. Just like The Order, she thought, except moister.
She proceeded into the thicket of the greenhouse, inspecting the plants affectionately, stroking the feathery leaves of the sumac, the bumpy tongues of the sage, and the tomato tendrils that coiled around tight nylon wires. Tiny greenish balls, on the verge of ripeness, hung from the tomato bushes. Professor Odem opened the partition that divided the greenhouse and walked into the orchid section. She left the partition open so that her human shadows could follow, fulfilling their function.
One of them sat down on a plastic stool; it was obvious from her facial expression that she would rather be somewhere else. The stool was so low that her quaint weapons belt touched the floor, making a screeching metallic sound. Visibly upset, she got up from her seat.
“What do you call this thing you’re wearing?”
“Standard RAD belt issued by She Shall Overcome.”
“Which means?”
“It includes devices for Restraint, Assault and Destroy. Hence RAD.”
“I hear that in Hagar’s case it didn’t really work.”
The guard’s inscrutable expression suddenly changed, to either confusion or contempt. Abigail wasn’t sure which.
“It works.”
“How do you know?”
The guard was getting impatient. It had been a long day.
“At the nuclear reactor in Dimona they don’t make test blasts either.”
Abigail didn’t want to disabuse the girl of her innocent assumption.
“What’s in the belt,” she asked.
“That’s classified,” another guard hastened to add.
“I’m important enough to warrant protection, but not enough to know by what means?”
The first girl relented and began noisily opening fasteners and Velcro strips, revealing a long coiled whip, a rounded dagger, and an antique sawn-off gun.
“As you can see, we have answers to various situations. ‘Balance of Terror’ just under the belt.”
Abigail decided not to delve any deeper and not to make any witty comment about the last statement.
A blue light suddenly exposed the silhouettes of the women who stood guard outside the greenhouse and now seemed to surround it like a human wall. Professor Odem sensed she was about to find out all about RAD belts when a man in a suit appeared at the door. He had blond hair and eyebrows, blue eyes and tight cheekbones, and in the palm of his perfect hand he cradled a glass of Armagnac.
The guards deployed to clear a field of fire. All belts were open and hands ready to draw. Abigail was surprised that any of them had shown up. She knew the possibility existed, but his appearance still astounded her. He gave off a distinctive yet pleasant odor of steaming tea and Madeleine cookies.
“You knew I was coming. You were expecting me.”
“They are here only to enable us to talk quietly.”
The “us” could be interpreted either way. She opened a door for him; he could come in if he wanted. It did not have to be personal. It was not about him or her. It was bigger than both of them, and it was important that he get this point.
“Isn’t it a bit late for a ‘quiet’ talk?”
Abigail always thought the Nephilim’s eternal youth left them with a certain juvenile quality. She decided to try another tack.
“We want to stop this before someone gets hurt.”
Again, an inclusive “we” as if to say: it’s us against the whole world, just as it always was. Until recently.
“So why are they here?” He made a wide gesture with his glass, nonchalantly splashing the expensive liquid. His angelic grace evidently masked great strength, now deliberately unleashed by Shamhazai.
“When you have a tear, you first use a safety pin, and later you sew it properly.”
The Naphil seemed in total control, oblivious to the guards surrounding him who had enough firepower to fell him. Abigail decided to play for time, to test the ground. Perhaps there was no need for escalation; the two of them could resolve it. She needed to change the subject, to diffuse the tension.
“Are Estie, Hagar, and Milka alright?”
She made a point of mentioning them by name, to give them an identity, to stress that they were not merely bargaining chips. They were individual women, Daughters of Lilith, members of a respectable order, cherished and cared for. Besides, she knew the importance of names for the Nephilim. Names meant power.
“Yes, we will take care of them.”
“This is important. Nobody should get hurt.”
“No, nobody wants that to happen,” Shamhazai said sardonically, emphasizing “that.” Abigail knew not to let him feel too self-confident. Anyone connected to the leadership of The Order knew that this was the source of the problem: the confidence they had accrued over time.
“We want you to release Estie first. The mother wants her daughter back. Then we’ll discuss how soon you return Hagar and Milka to us.”
Again, precise names. Again feigned deference. Give him the impression that they will do his bidding. Appeal to the grace of his celestial personality.
“Really, you’ll let us?”
“Estie is a child. She is not part of the deal.”
She realized that from his perspective, childhood and adolescence were incidental. When you had existed for more than five thousand years, age fourteen took on the same significance as four hundred and ninety or thereabouts. The personal angle was not going to work here.
“We want to maintain the status quo. There are two very skilled guards here who are exercising great restraint at the moment, because we’ll have to live together for many more years.”
“Why?”
“Because the status quo has to be maintained; you know this as well as I do. You may be much more affected. I may be terminating my forty years on this earth here and now, but you will determine what the next centuries will look like.”
“Unless we don’t intend to stay here.”
Abigail did not quite understand his tactics; he was standing there, cocky, smug, rebuffing all her attempts to meet him half way. Obviously, they intended to stay here. They had nowhere to go. No arguments existed for or against such an eventuality because it had never been disputed. The Nephilim preferred earthly delights to celestial boredom. The ardent love they felt toward ancient Lilith was at the core of the covenant; it was the cornerstone of the elaborate structure of the order of the Nephilim, that love and the fact that there was no practical way they could return, without the consent of the Superior Power, who did not particularly care for them. Abigail glanced at the greenhouse walls and at the figures surrounding it, lit by an eerie purple-bluish light, and felt secure and confident. Still, something didn’t seem quite right. Shamhazai took a few steps forward and the guards sprang to action, whipping out their daggers with sharp metallic clicks.
“It doesn’t have to end like this,” Abigail tried to defuse the situation.
Shamhazai continued to advance, taking small steps, like a panther about to pounce.
“One more step and I blow his head off!” cried the guard on the left.
The sawn-off gun was already taking aim. Shamhazai, however, looked frightfully calm.
“Remember what you were told! One drop of blood and everything changes! It’s a point of no return!”