Judgment Stone (9781401687359)

by Robert Liparulo

  “You will,” Bale said, removing the Stone from his pocket.

  [ 36 ]

  Bale stopped, the Stone in his hand. Someone had joined their party, an old man in raggedy clothes—his belt was a length of rope, for crying out loud. Bale turned to him. “Kakvo?” What?

  The old man wrung a cloth cap in his hands. He smiled tooth-lessly, glancing at each of the Clan in turn, then fixed a soft expression on Bale. “Please, sir,” he said in Bulgarian. “A few Euros?”

  Bale stared. An angel accompanied the old man. It stood beside him, the sparks flying around the two. Protecting the old geezer, he thought, and wondered what would happen if he pulled out a gun and blasted the bum away. Could the angel actually prevent the bullets from tearing the old guy apart? A whole magazine of bullets? Would his gun jam? Would the man start dodging them, dancing away like a rapper, the angel moving him as if he were a puppet?

  The man said, “My wife and I have not eaten in two days. All we have goes into our grandchildren’s mouths, so little for them too.”

  Therion stepped forward, a creature nudging him from behind. “I’ll take care of the little grandrats for you,” he said. “Where are they?”

  Lilit said, “We’ll even bring you back some grandrat steaks. Eat like kings.”

  The man tried smiling at them, but it wouldn’t hold.

  “Get out of here, old man,” Bale said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked into the angel’s eyes. “You too.”

  “Just a few Euros, kind sir.” Persistent bugger.

  “Go!” Bale took a step toward him. The man backed up, turned, and walked away, glancing back every few steps. The angel walked beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

  Bale watched them for a few moments longer, then looked over the roofs. The beam was still there. Given what he knew about it, it could disappear at any moment. He pointed, said, “It’s still there, but we have to hurry. If I show you this, let you experience it—” He held the Stone up in his palm. He eyed the demons milling around the Clan. “Don’t get caught up in what you see. There’ll be plenty of time for—”

  “Sir?” The old man and his creepy angel were back, not five feet from Bale.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  “Ne!” Bale said. No! “You can’t possibly be this stupid.”

  Therion moved in, arms extended. “Over the wall with you, Pops. Hope you can swim.”

  In a flash, the angel moved around the man to insert itself between him and Therion. Its sparks became wings, which folded backward, encasing the man. Bale watched, fascinated. As Therion approached, the angel held up its hand in a stop gesture, pressing it against Therion’s forehead. At the same time, one of the wings broke apart, flew forward, and became a long narrow blade. The point of the blade pressed against the neck of the big demon who’d been walking beside Therion. It stopped, but Therion kept walking, noticeably slower. For a moment the angel’s hand went into Therion’s head, and Therion appeared to be walking through the angel. Then the angel shifted and was standing now beside Therion, right at the old man’s shoulder.

  Instead of seizing the guy and tossing him over the wall, Therion merely gripped the man’s shoulder and shook it. “Look at this guy,” he said. “Ninety pounds of nothing. Not worth my time.” He waved his hand dismissively and walked back to the group.

  “I got something for you,” Bale said, stepping toward him. He held out the Stone, moving it toward the old man’s face.

  The angel swung around, its sparks shooting toward Bale’s hand, passing through it. Bale felt his fingers go weak, the weight of the Stone pressing against them, tilting out. He gripped tighter and touched the point of the Stone to the man’s cheek.

  The old man’s eyes opened wide, darted around. Bale knew he was taking in the creatures. As beautiful as they were, their sudden appearance had to be startling. But the beggar’s reaction was several levels above what Bale had expected. The man shrieked and shielded his face with his hands. He stumbled back, tripped and fell, scrambled backward twenty feet, glaring and screaming. “Ne! Ne! Ne! Martas!”

  Bale looked at the creatures. How could anyone call them monsters?

  With the angel’s assistance—the man hardly noticed it, just glanced at it once before looking back at the creatures—he turned onto his hands and knees, crawled a ways, got his feet under him, and ran. His arms alternately waved over his head and shot behind him, as if warding off any pursuing demons.

  But none of the creatures followed him. They remained with the Clan, grinning, wiggling their bodies, looking at each other in obvious mirth.

  The angel flew beside the man, touching him, stroking his head with one sparkle-wing, apparently talking to him. The old man ran up a side street and disappeared behind a building, only his screams coming back to Bale’s ears.

  Bale turned to the Clan. They were all too stunned to smile or laugh. Bale wished he had let them touch the Stone before giving the beggar a dose. “Trust me,” he said. “That was funny.”

  “Was it the rock?” Hester asked.

  Cillian said, “Did it drive him crazy?”

  “Only for a time,” Bale said. “I think.” He had a feeling that if the old guy’s own constitution couldn’t do it, the angel would help him find his sanity again. “But don’t fear it.” He held the Stone out to them. “It will open your eyes.”

  One by one they stepped up to touch it, each reeling away, stammering about the things they saw. Bale felt like a priest, administering Holy Communion to his children for the first time.

  [ 37 ]

  Toby watched the helicopter come into the valley. He was standing in the mouth of the cave in which St. Onuphrius had lived as a hermit for seventy years during the fourth and fifth centuries. It was said that Onuphrius was the prototypical hermit-monk, becoming a wild man in the desert—long, shaggy hair, and wearing only a loin cloth made of leaves. To the few people who stumbled upon him, he described visions of angels “like all the stars of heaven coming together to form a single celestial being.” Toby wondered whether it was true or the crazy old coot had been off his rocker. One visitor told of angels delivering bread and water to the cave every morning when he awoke.

  Hiking here from the clearing above the monastery, Toby had wished that one was true and that the angels were still providing room service. He’d gone through his supply of meal bars, candy, and trail mix. He was famished and down to his last few sips of water.

  The valley spread out before him—called Wadi el Arbain—was three miles south of St. C’s, Mount Sinai between them. It was an oasis of olive groves and cypress trees, watered by a natural spring from which Toby refused to drink. He’d heard Montezuma’s revenge was nothing compared to Onuphrius’s, and a mission was no time for that problem.

  He emerged from the cave and headed down a slope toward the disused Monastery of the Forty Martyrs. The small grouping of stone structures was built in the sixth century to honor forty Christian soldiers of the Roman army who were put to death in Sebaste—in modern-day Turkey—for not disavowing Jesus Christ as their Lord. Everywhere you looked, it seemed to Toby, people were dying for God—and here they were, the Tribe, wanting to die but not being allowed to.

  Though abandoned four hundred years ago, the buildings still provided shelter and were a lot more comfortable than a cave. In fact, monks from St. C’s occasionally stayed there. It was a shame the place was too far from the monastery for Toby to sleep in and still do his job.

  The helicopter’s downdraft whipped the trees around, sending leaves into the air like confetti. It set down on a flat spot near the buildings, and Nevaeh was out before its blades started to slow. Ducking, holding the crown of her head while her hair snapped round her face, she strode toward Toby.

  “What’s the word?” she said from thirty feet away. “Is Beth still there?”

  “She was when I left. But Jagger’s gone.”

  “Where? When?” They reached each other, and she leaned in to give
him a quick hug—part of the role she’d taken on eons ago as foster mother of the younger Tribe members. Toby liked it as often as he hated it, so he never complained.

  “This morning, right before I left to come here. Owen was with him.”

  “Owen?” Nevaeh said, thinking. “Those two have become quite the buds. Any idea where they went?”

  “Took off in Owen’s copter. He came in around seven, left with Jagger tenish. I’m thinking they went after whoever attacked them.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Toby shrugged. “A hunch. That’s what they do.”

  “Vengeance?” She smiled.

  “Maybe. I heard some chatter on the satphone’s radio band before it went out. Three monks were killed last night.”

  “Those hypocrites,” Nevaeh said. “They give us grief for doing what we do, and they’re doing the same thing.”

  “Unless whatever the attackers were after they got, and Jagger and Owen want it back.”

  “That’s more like them,” she conceded. “But it’s more satisfying to think they’re starting to see things our way.”

  “Again,” Toby reminded her.

  “Again.” She looked over her shoulder at the others unloading packs and duffel bags and cases from the copter. She turned back. “I was expecting to face Jagger,” she said. “Total overkill now, the personnel and equipment we brought just to grab the woman.”

  “The monks will be protecting her,” Toby said, and when Nevaeh rolled her eyes, added, “Last night they had shotguns and rocket launchers.”

  She nodded. These were no ordinary monks. “Any word about what the attack team was after?”

  “Nothing. I was on the Southwest Range Building roof last night when Jagger placed a call. I think he was talking to Owen, but I couldn’t get close enough to hear anything.” He stuck out a foot, showing her an Austin boot. “Sometimes these things beep or squeak at the worst possible times.”

  She looked at it, running her gaze along the leg brackets and hip clamps. “Otherwise, no problems with them?” This was the technology’s first use on an actual mission.

  “Battery seems to be draining faster than we expected. I used them to get here but turn them off whenever I can.” He lifted his shirt and tipped the belt toward her, showing her the unlighted LED.

  “We’ll put ours on when we’re closer,” she said. “I want to have a full charge going in. Don’t want to risk damaging them either . . . or being seen bouncing around like Neil Armstrong.”

  She gave him a look, and he said, “I’ve been careful. Besides, the tourist traffic is down by half, if not more. The monastery’s closed, and the check-point guards on the Valley of Gazelles road to St. C’s are discouraging travel here.”

  “But Beth is still there, you’re sure?”

  “Saw her this morning, after Jagger left. She and her boy wandered around in the gardens, then it looked like Gheronda called them inside the compound. The monks were locking down.”

  “No extra security?”

  “Egyptian cops this morning. They left before Jagger did. Didn’t seem too interested. You know how they are about the monastery.”

  She smiled at him, patted his arm. “Good job.” She turned and headed back to the copter.

  “Hey,” he said. “Did you bring food?”

  She tossed an energy bar over her shoulder to him. “There’s more where that came from,” she called without looking. Then she clapped her hands and yelled at the others, “Move it, guys! Let’s get this show on the road!”

  [ 38 ]

  Beth had looked for Tyler in all his favorite spots: the burning bush, the tunnel that ran diagonally under half the compound—formed by storerooms, monk cells, and chapels built helter-skelter around and above it—a cave-like recess in the east wall, said to have once been lived in by a monk who’d claimed the spartan cells were too luxurious. Now she stood in the court between the basilica and mosque, squinting up at the top bell tower, five stories high, calling his name. He knew not to go there, but he’d left the apartment in a funk, and she thought maybe his need to get away by himself would override the prohibition.

  Father Leo stepped up beside her, peering up. “Want me to go up and check?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “He’d answer if he heard me.”

  He nodded toward a bowl she held. “Lunch?”

  She looked down at the um aly—raisin cake soaked in milk. Its edges bore evidence of her nibbling at it as she’d looked for her son. “A snack,” she said. “Tyler loves it. More upstairs if you’d like . . .”

  “Thank you, but I’m not very hungry today.” He scanned the tops of the buildings south of them. Beyond them the Southwest Range Building loomed, and behind it, Mount Sinai. “Have you checked the terraces?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I thought maybe the library, but I guess not.” Leo was the monastery’s librarian, and it was a rare occasion when it was open without him. He was also something like Gheronda’s right-hand man, running interference on problems heading the old man’s way, passing orders to the other monks on his behalf. Beth wasn’t sure what his official role in the order was, but he seemed efficient and had always been pleasant to her family. He was young, about thirty, same age as Beth and Jagger—well, the age Jagger appeared and pretended to be. Leo’s baby face and wispy, best-I-can-do beard made him look younger, but his confidence and cool affability pulled impressions the other direction, so she figured thirty was a good guess.

  She was about to say, Do you mind my asking . . . when he waved his finger toward the roofs and said, “Why don’t you head up there from the west? I’ll come around from the north. Between the two of us, I’m sure we’ll find him.”

  She agreed and carried the um aly up the steps leading to the first level of rooftop terraces. She remembered finding Tyler several times on the bench in front of Father Jerome’s cell and ascended another flight to the topmost jumble of roofs. Crossing a bridge, she stepped onto a flat, gravelly rooftop. A flue rose six feet high from its center, and terra-cotta roof tiles lined the edge, token reminders that it was a roof first, a makeshift terrace second. A rickety chair leaned empty against a whitewashed half wall along the edge closest to the Southwest Range Building. Southwest Range Building—what a blah name for such a pretty building. It was a shame someone hadn’t thought up something more picturesque. Tyler called it the Colosseum because of its levels of columned arches and its imposing presence over the rest of the compound. She should start doing that too, get Jagger to join in; maybe it would catch on.

  She reached the next roof-terrace, two feet lower, no steps to it. She hopped down, now on a four-foot strip of roof between Jerome’s cell and a drop-off to the roof a floor below. How could she let Tyler scramble around this dangerous place? He was a ten-year-old boy, that’s how, agile and curious. He’d told her he’d reached places that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up: on top of the Southwest . . . the Colosseum and a little wooden deck fifty feet up on the outside of the wall overlooking the archaeological dig. Accessed through a small door and tunnel through the wall, the deck had once been used for meditation. Now it looked rotten and ready to fall. She’d made these places—as well as the bell tower and the machicolation box, which at one time was the monastery’s only entrance and now clung like the world’s most poorly located outhouse to the wall forty feet over the current gate—off limits to him. The rest was fair game, and he’d never been hurt outside the sort of cuts and bruises any active boy would get doing almost anything.

  She rounded Jerome’s cell and saw that the bench in front of it was empty. She started toward the next roof and stopped. She’d heard someone whisper her name. She looked beyond the bench into a shadowy corner, and there was Leo, crouched in front of her son. Somehow the monk had arrived here first, despite having to cross at least twice the distance.

  Tyler was sitting on the ground, legs pulled up in front of him.

  She walked up to him and sto
pped beside Leo. She held the bowl out to Tyler. “Um aly?”

  Without looking, he shook his head. He sniffed and ran the back of his hand under his nose.

  She sat cross-legged next to him, facing him, and gave him a sad look. Leo stood and wandered away, disappearing around a corner.

  “Are those tears for the monks?” Beth asked.

  Tyler touched a drop on his chin. “This one’s for Father Luca.” He pointed to a spot on his T-shirt that a tear had darkened. “That was for Father Bardas . . . and this one for Father Corban.” He rubbed the wetness under his eye. “These are for Dad.”

  She put her hand on his knee. “Dad loves us very much. He’s doing everything he can to get home fast.”

  “Why’d he have to go?”

  “Owen needs his help.”

  “You mean John.”

  “He goes by Owen now.”

  He nodded and looked at her. “What about Dad? He’s not really Jagger?”

  “I think he’s had many names. But you know what, Jagger is the only one he remembers, so let’s not ask him about it. Besides, no matter his name, he’s still Dad. He’s still the good man I married.”

  “A rose by any other name smells just as sweet.”

  “You remembered,” she said. They’d covered Romeo and Juliet a few months ago as part of their homeschooling program.

  Tyler smiled. “Can I change my name?”

  “I like Tyler.”

  He thought about it, nodded. “So do I.” He looked into her eyes and asked, “When will Dad be home?”

  She knew he wanted more than a time; he wanted assurance that Jagger would come home.

  “Soon, I—” She almost said promise, but she stopped herself. “I think. But he will come home. Look at him, he’s a superhero.”

  “He can’t die, right?” Tyler said.

  “He’s stronger than other people.”

  “And he can’t die. You said he was immortal. That means he can’t die.”

  “I meant he doesn’t age. He can die, but it would take a lot to kill him.”